A watery playground

In the lazy dazzle

of a hazy autumnal sun,

 I watch the sea leap and dance,

 the waves a turbulent mass

of energy unleashed.

A jet skier climbs and cuts a swathe

Through the terre verte of this playground’s mighty swell.

All that‘s left of the lone windsurfer

glimpsed far out to sea earlier

is the Milk Tray Man sloshing with seal-like

wetsuit there across the car park –

 the wind  hastening him to his car.

A few bedraggled and windswept dog-walkers

look, with me, seawards across the sands.

Sands which are now bereft

of their tourist adornments.

I prefer them just plainly

beautiful.

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Welsh Dragons and Spaghetti Flings

My Mum is a gentle soul, not too quick to judge – instead stands quietly by and watches. Talented in lots of ways, her singing self has performed on stage and radio and TV and also in the kitchen on the hallway…and the bathroom (my Dad has been known to sing a duet. Not so pleasant!). Her poetry has been published in various books and greetings cards but she is not one to look for praise or glory she just gets on and does what she enjoys. Latterly she has taken to doing crosswords – you only need put the paper down for a minute and she has nabbed it for her own and it’s not long before she ropes everyone else in to provide the answers – generous to a fault she likes to make everyone share the credit for finishing it. A joint effort you see.
My Mum’s emblem is the Welsh Dragon and just occasionally you see a fiery side – this has surfaced once or twice in her poetry and most memorably of all in the spaghetti fling (a Welsh version of the Highland one I suppose). Me and my brother appreciated the artwork on the flock wallpaper but I’m not sure that my father did as it was his head it narrowly missed. It must have worked, this venting of steam, as they celebrated their Golden Wedding a couple of years ago.
Happy Birthday to my wonderful Mum – the most selfless and patient person I know.

Flaming Longboats!

In the best tradition I put my foot in it. I take my father to Morrison’s to do his weekly shop and while he is trundling up and down the aisles I see an old parent from school. We chat about our children and what they are up to now and then he says that he is still enjoying knocking people on their heads with bits of metal (ie into his Viking re-enactment activities) and has been all around Scandinavia, rowing longboats and generally having a great time. I reply that “it’s all good experience!” and then depart to stick my flaming cheeks in the freezer with the frozen sausages – I had meant to say “It’s all AN experience.” What would it be good experience for exactly…wanting to become a Viking when he grows up?

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