The Lowlands

 

 

Take me back to the coast of Ballentrae,

And a breathtaking view of Ailsa Craig

Half hidden by mist on a rainy day,

Grey shape against dull sky, outline so vague.

 

 

Crossing the bridge at breezy Kirkcudbright.

A cloudy sunset on the Firth of Solway.

And drinking tea at a street side café

At the end of another perfect day.

 

 

I close my eyes and think of Galloway

The deer, the sheep, the sound of the forest.

Watching rabbits chasing each other at play

While the local birds retire to their nests.

 

 

I will return to this place of my dreams,

My love of the forest and rolling hills

Where all is real and just as it seems,

In peace and tranquillity, my soul stills.

 

 

 

Pamela M Winning          2013

 

My Grandad's Bible

My Grandad’s Bible

 

Small, old bible, black and plain,

In my care, now, to remain

Forever, a family treasure,

So special, beyond all measure.

 

A neat, handwritten note inside,

A prayer for God to be his guide

Where ever this war bids him roam

And faith to bring him safely home.

 

George’s birthday, nineteen-eighteen,

Still in France, or had he been?

Now aged twenty and just a lad,

Long before he was my Grandad.

 

 

 

 

Pamela Winning   2013

 

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
 

 

Jazz tempo piano and a bluesy guitar,

It’s 2 a.m. in Goliath’s Bar

Where Lorna sips gin through a long, curly straw

As she sits and waits, one eye on the door.

Steve said he’d be along to see her set

But he’d promised before – never made it yet.

 

 Perched on a bar stool, cigarette in hand,

Minutes away from her spot with the band,

She leans a bit further back on her seat,

And her red stiletto taps out the beat.

 

Lorna’s laughing and swaying, about to begin,

Adrenaline rush or too much pink gin?

She’s out of her mind, but not really crazy,

Her vision’s gone soft focus, smoky and hazy.

  

Tight black dress, short, strapless and low;

Only put on for this kind of a show.

This was a time for freedom and defiance

Where she’s happy to stand on these shoulders of giants.

  

She clutches the mic stand, there’s a hint of a smile

Then she bangs out a song in her Joplin-esque style.

Heat and smoke hit hard on her throat

But she stays on key and finds the right note.

  

Billy and Fred

Billy and Fred   (Ballad)       

 

A bonny seaside town is Morecambe,

Much nicer than Blackpool, it’s said.

The Claytons went there for the weekend

With little ‘uns, Billy and Fred.

 

The caravan packed up and ready,

They’d used it again and again;

So just before tea-time on Friday,

They set off in the pouring rain.

 

They’d barely got out of the borough

When a wail and a cry came from Fred.

“’Es doing it, Mam, will yer tell ‘im?

‘E keeps trying to spit on me ‘ead!”

 

“Just pack it in right now, you monkeys,

Or here’s one thing you’ll be in no doubt,

Anymore of your silly, daft nonsense,

You’ll both be in line for a clout!”

 

 

Billy stretched his mouth with his fingers

And thrust out his wet tongue with glee.

Fred shoved him along the back seat

And squeezed Billy hard on his knee.

 

He squealed and he squirmed and he kicked out,

Then Mam shouted, “Dad, stop the car!

I’ll have to swap places with Billy,

They need a good hiding, by far.

 

“God knows how we’ll manage in Morecambe

With these two, it’s one constant fight.

Not like other families sweet children

With manners and smiles and delight.”

 

“Don’t fret, Mam, its fine when we get there,

They’ll busy themselves having fun.

While we can relax on our deck chairs,

We can let them run loose in the sun.”

 

Then the car gave a shudder and bump

And Billy said, “Ock oh! What’s that?”

Dad moaned as he steered to the roadside,

“That bloody nearside front is flat!”

 

Inside the caravan they waited

While Dad changed the wheel on the car

Covered in dirt and a rain-soaked shirt

And they hadn’t yet gone very far.

 

It was dark when they got to the site.

Fred had an ache in his belly.

Mam’s cross face was set in a frown

‘Cos Dad had forgotten the telly.

 

He said, “Let me get out of these clothes,

I’m soaking right through to me skin.

Mam, will yer get me a towel

And summat to put wet stuff in?”

 

Fred groaned from the caravan toilet.

His chin was pressed hard on his knees.

He felt very sickly and dizzy

And his mouth tasted funny, like cheese.

 

Billy said, “Mam, tell ‘im, its ages.

I’m burstin’ meself for a wee!”

“Oh Billy,” Mam said, “if that’s all,

Go outside, there’s no-one to see.”

 

The next day was warm, bright and sunny,

So off to the seaside they went;

With buckets and spades and a picnic,

A wind-breaker and a beach tent.

 

They hadn’t been there many minutes

When a painful cry from Billy

Sent laughing Fred to tell Mam and Dad,

“He thinks that a crab nipped his willie.”

 

“Oh, it’s not a crab, you silly lad!”

Mam said, “Just look at what I’ve found.”

She shook her head and sorted him out.

“It’s just yer pants on wrong way round.”

 

Cockles and mussels and ice-cream, too;

It was a lovely summer’s day.

Mam and Dad having a well-earned rest

While the lads were happy at play.

 

 

                                                                       Pamela Winning.

 

 

 

 

2012 Olympics

 

Johnny went to Paris

To swim for the USA,

And won a few gold medals

With his speedy freestyle way.

He played some water polo

The best form he’d ever been,

And gained a bronze medallion

At the age of just nineteen.

  

 

Johnny went to Amsterdam

And swam his fastest front crawl

He won two more gold medals,

Then decided that was all.

He’d had another offer,

Something different and new.

He left the sports arena,

For a venture to pursue.

 

Johnny went to Hollywood

And signed up with MGM

To make the ‘Tarzan’ movies,

Then later, ‘Jungle Jim’.

Johnny Weissmuller, film star

On Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.

It all began with swimming

In the 1924 games.

A Quiet Night In

          My house is filled with homely chaos. There’s usually a mix of human activity and busy domestic appliances. Loud music, TV and Xbox create a mish-mash of noise from different rooms on different floors. Voices are raised to be heard and often the dog joins in. It sounds like elephants running down the stairs and the attic door slams because the skylight is open. Raucous laughter erupting from above reminds me that it’s also happy chaos.

          Quiet times are rare and cherished. This was going to be one of those evenings. The loudest occupant and her non-stop chattering friend had gone out. The less noisy one was alone in his room. My husband and I turned the lights down and snuggled cosy for catch-up TV. Can we really have a peaceful night in? No. I was just peeling the wrapper off my second Ferrero Rocher, saved from last week’s birthday, when it started. I love parties, but only when I’m at one, not when the racket filters through from four houses down and I’m trying to relax. They are an odd bunch. We call them The Scrappies because of the broken bits of dead car rusting away on their drive. Oh well, up goes the volume on our TV. Some friends arrive for our son and stampede up to the attic, beer cans clanging. One of them has an irritating, snorting laugh. I try to ignore it and eat another chocolate.

          By the time we’re going to bed, the party in the attic is rocking. There’s reassuring promises that everyone will be leaving soon. They’re just running through some tunes. The bluesy guitar riffs are alright turned down but someone’s messing up on keyboard, over and over again in the same place. I lie still for a few seconds, practising the ‘tolerance’ and ‘restraint’ skills I’ve been working on before telling them all to shut up. They troop out soon after, but the party down the road continues, half indoors and half out. Someone’s shouting, someone’s swearing, everyone’s laughing.

          I drift off into a restless doze. It’s not long until something wakes me.

          Mr Movember is flat on his back and snoring, undisturbed by the helicopter droning overhead. I finger-stab him in the ribs, hissing a suggestion that he should turn on to his side…or else.

          A quiet evening in this madhouse?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bless you, Enid Blyton!

     

 

       I’m overjoyed to be given a Kindle for my birthday. I’ve wanted one for ages so I’m delighted that all my dropped hints landed in the right place. It won’t replace my books, it’s a modern addition. Nothing can take the place of reading. Well, okay, writing can, but good writing is built on a foundation of lots of reading.

       When I was seven, my family moved house and in the new place was a box of old children’s books ‘for the little girl’. What treasure that box held for me! There was a book about ballet, a girl’s annual that introduced me to ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, some junior encyclopaedias and a stack of hard-back books by someone called Enid Blyton.  Looking at the beginning of a ‘Secret Seven’ book, I discovered that not only could I read and understand it, I loved it. The story was about children playing and having fun making up their own games. Children like me and the friends I had in my new school.  It was tons better than ‘Janet and John’ or ‘The Green Reader’. Throughout my childhood I read and re-read Enid Blyton. I would reach the end of ‘The Rilloby Fair Mystery’ and go right back to Chapter One and start again because I loved the characters so much. I couldn’t get enough of The Famous Five books and all ‘The Mystery of…’ stories. When I read the school stories of Malory Towers or St Clare’s, I longed to be at boarding school with those girls.

       All this reading did something else. It gave me the desire to create characters and write my own stories. Bless you, Enid Blyton!  I’ve kept those old books, but I’m going to enjoy reading you on my Kindle.