All to Dust

What price memories?
All are felled with the vast claw
of progress.
…..

and a boulder (sorry)

From the newly revealed houses opposite, one of the residents takes a photo of the dust-blanketed Mercedes that sits huddled on his driveway. He gets in his car and dulled rear headlights emerge through the fog of disinterest that permeates the site. Our teacher comments that her car is over there somewhere too. With a rising sense of foreboding, I realise where my own is…directly behind the man-made mountain that now fills the space before our eyes.

Gleeful at having found such a handy parking space, one of many in a usually packed street, I dashed in to work without coming to a logical explanation for this unexpected bounty.

The children’s faces mirror my look of horror when I blurt out this realisation and they turn to me with round eyes and open mouths.
Thoughts of volcanic ash clouds and what happens to plane engines flit through my increasingly irrational mind as I go to collect my car. It has almost completely changed colour from a usual metallic green to a greying beige, glowering sullenly to me as I approach. I offer a few words to any kind spirit that might be listening before turning the key in the key in the ignition.

It is only us who are choked by the destruction of this place so filled with memories. The engine flares to life.

Gone

The whole class gets distracted by an almighty ‘thud!’ and clouds of dust billowing up outside our windows.  The children are allowed to line up along the sills and watch as the last part of the old school is demolished before our eyes.  The digger marches determinedly  up and over the huge bank of rubble while his mate claws her way through the debris, picking out pieces of roof tressel, loft beams and wooden edging strips from displays that were covered with our World War II topic work just a few weeks before. Caleb says that it looks like it must have done in the war.

From the newly revealed houses opposite, one of the residents takes a photo of the dust-blanketed Mercedes that sits huddled on his driveway. He gets in his car and dulled rear headlights emerge through the fog of disinterest that permeates the site.   Our teacher comments that her car is over there somewhere too.  With a rising sense of foreboding, I realise where my own is…directly behind the man-made mountain that now fills the space before our eyes.

Gleeful at having found such a handy parking space, one of many in a usually packed street, I dashed in to work without coming to a logical explanation for this unexpected bounty.

The children’s faces mirror my look of horror when I blurt out this realisation and they turn to me with round eyes and open mouths.

Thoughts of volcanic ash clouds and what happens to plane engines flit through my increasingly irrational mind as I go to collect my car. It has almost completely changed colour from a usual metallic green to a greying beige, glowering sullenly to me as I approach.  I offer a few words to any kind soul that might be listening before turning the key in the key in the ignition.

It is only us who are choked by the destruction of this place so filled with memories. The engine flares to life.

Casualties of War

Silence falls
As endless crosses
projected on stark modern walls
Shock those assembled within
into moved contemplation.
We don’t forget.

A little Embroidery

Remember
They say
You should write
About what you know.
Disconcerting…

Bonfire Night Ashes

Scary
Loud noises
Make me feel
Relieved my dog’s not
Here…

Bursting Bubbles

1.11.13
Went to a quiz night tonight.
The last time I was in the church hall was when we threw a party for my eldest and we had to police the doors like bouncers for the fourteen year olds who thought that they were eighteen and kept trying to escape around the back in the dark to have a swig of stashed alcohol. Then we had a chocolate fountain and a bubble machine that we hired to add to the ambiance of the dance floor. On clearing up we discovered that when the bubbles burst they left little marks all over the prized parquet flooring – we had a dreadful job trying to clean it up.
This evening the inmates were comprised of local church-goers and their families and friends, no one tried to get out before the end and the only bubbles that burst were the ones when we got our questions wrong (quite a lot!). All in all a good evening with a few bottles of wine thrown in because, of course, we were all over the age of knowing better…

Blood sports

Trundling down the pier at ten miles an hour (you get clocked and booked if you go any faster) I have ample time to look left and right. The tide is at its lowest, exposing a feast for both the gulls and the fishermen preparing for this evening’s marathon.
When I was young and eager I would carry the bait bucket around Player’s beach – a caddy for a contest which swapped club for rod.
Time moves on, the tides are ever-shifting in this game of life that we play out on the sands of here and now.

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