Tag Archives: writing

moment 27

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big red stood in the yard. broad shouldered and tall. taller than most there. he could easily carry more than a hundred. once. now, not so sure. time had transformed him. no longer days wandering the streets of the city, saying hello to new folk. folk local to the place and visitors from far off lands he would never see. tales of gleaming buildings, monorails and cars that walked themselves. tales of streets filled with people, almost unable to move, fighting to get home. home to their small boxes with small rooms and small children. in his city not so busy. instead narrow roads, grime-covered bricks, litter dancing on pavements, and sleeping drunks at bus stops. most were nice to him, grateful of his help, happy he was there. others swore at him, hit him as he passed or scrawled obscenities on him as he slept. no, he was old and travelled the city streets no more. instead, he sat in the yard, changed. some days were good. people would come to him, get a drink at a table in sun, or study vibrant art. other times, laughter filled the air. they sat on him listening, waiting for the punchline to come. and the lonely times, he would just sit there, in the yard, in the dark, waiting for day to break. waiting for the company of people. he did not mind his end times. there was nothing he could do. but sit. wait. big red.

a psychogeography of turnpike lane

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in the summer of 2023, during the haringey arts festival, i got involved with a writing project. the idea was to map the psychological reaction to local area in turnpike lane, london through pieces of poetry and prose. we spent an afternoon exploring and writing about the local area.

writers ventured out. made notes. then sat and scribbled a piece or pieces of writing. what resulted was a collection of work that spoke of different roads, shops, buildings, or journeys.

after some editing and compiling by clever people, a book was born. some abstract illustrations were added to accompany the work, and a year late the book was launched in london.

i attended a launch in the all good bookshop which is right in the heart of turnpike lane. extracts were read, discussion took place, plans were made, and whiskey dunk.

friday 20th september sees us at the magnificent st mary’s tower in hornsey to promote the book. it promises to an atmospheric evening of celebration, laughter, and possibly intrigue.

new york

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a guy plays sax for coin on the corner of 6th avenue and 55 street. mechanical rabbits and cats dance to the beat. a few walkers tap their feet to the rhythm, sway to the sound. but give no dime. they’re too busy waiting to cross. pass the manhole covers venting steam in the 31 heat. they cross. on their way to meet. sit in a bar. sip a cool beer.
outside barnes & noble on 5th avenue a grey old man sleeps. head on a box. slumbered. he holds a sign in one hand. black marker pen: please help i am homeless, oh god save us all, oh god save us all. he makes no dollar. he doesn’t notice.
the street sellers set up their plastic crates with goods for the night crowds. genuine rolexes and gucci bags for a ten. they give their patter to the tourists. everything is for sale. even souls.
the queue builds outside the rock. the red carpet awaits. cool efficiency bundles the bodies in for a view like no other. come enjoy the ride. sorry the tops closed. lightning expected.
the wise seek shelter in the air-cooled diner. iced lattes and milk shakes with candy floss. all day breakfast. delivered with a smile. they work hard for their tip. the manager smiles.
in dillon’s the locals drink ice-cool beer and watch the sports on the many screens. how we doing in paris? there is the crack of the pool table as the screen light gleams off the copper jars hanging from the ceiling.
in the bar of the renwick hotel loud music plays. you have to sell a kidney to pay for a beer. they take your money with a smile. a drunk new yorker tells you about his wall street deals and visit to london. he’s scathing of both. but it is no better here.
the strand bookstore. the lost wander the shelves looking for loved ones. they find them hardbound. there is the smell of coffee by the graphic novels and teenage girls browse the romance novels. not that one – my mum would kill me!
lafayette is a place of chilled wine and flaky pastry. pistachio cream filled croissants are devoured eagerly as talk turns to the best shops for sneakers. have you tried macy’s?
in the white horse tavern in west village tourists drink cocktails and tell stories of dylan thomas. you can’t help thinking the place was better then.
empty boutique stores in greenwich village display designer goods without the price tag. no one goes in. the locals instead walk their dogs and talk of the best place to get coffee.
in washington square the young play for the crowds. street sellers have handcrafted trinkets. you can play chess for a fee. a bare chested man practices his dance moves. too vigorous. his shorts fall down. unperturbed. he dances on.
times square you get bundles by mickey and his friend mickey. with mickey. their mouse features are fixed grinned. menacing. the screens pop ads encouraging you to spend. come on! embrace the american dream.

ants

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according to Google: the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

it is a warm summer’s day in june. about 23 degrees. and i lie on the grass in my garden. the sun beats down on my back and legs. i have a black t-shirt on and black jeans. not really summer wear but being a folk who has many a mole this is how i tackle summer and avoid skin cancer. it is hot. even the birds have given up.

i soak up the sun like a lizard. feeling it pour into me. warming every part. i am being slowly baked by heat. delicious heat. as i drift between consciousness and a semi-dream state.

i open my eyes and study the grass before me. it’s several shades of green. lime. jade. olive. pickle. brown in patches. recently cut. it sports a neat trim that is not quite maintained when it reaches the flower borders. there are a few tufts springing up there. the places i didn’t quite cut with the mower. it is not the neatest of jobs but i decide to not let it guilt me. better to be lying in the sun.

my eye is caught by a movement in the grass. it is small but i still catch it. the movement of a cut sliver of green. an ant crossing the jungle of the lawn. crawling between each blade as it makes its way somewhere. i wonder how many ants there are there at that precise moment crawling through the grass. all on an errand to somewhere. perhaps they carry an urgent message. the sighting of a delicious sugary treat in someone’s house. just waiting to be exploited by the right colony of ants. the thought of so many ants crawling around me gives me the creeps. i bring my thumb down and squash the ant in front of me.

i always hated ants. the days before i knew better. when i would unwisely sit near a nest playing. then i would find them crawling on me. tickling my skin. making their way over my legs. i would scream. jump up. frantically bat at my body. try to get them off me. i would run. into the house. screaming. throwing my clothes off. my parents would come running. wondering what the matter was. they would find me. in the shower. hot water flowing over me. cleansing me of my hidden enemy.

i would enact my revenge on the ants. not by pouring hot water over the nest. no. that was too quick. too kind. i would get my lego. build upon a green base piece. a maze of walls with chambers. an entrance in. an exit out. add obstacles to overcome. twigs. leaves. sand. lego dots. then i would catch an ant. place it in the centre of the maze. add one or two more.

i would watch fascinated as they tried to make their way round. over the twigs. through the sand. under the lego dots. one would try to climb the walls. i would knock it back down. it soon learnt that way was futile.

the unfortunate ones would enter the torture rooms. the chambers where a splash of water would fall down. or a cascade of dirt or stones. the really unfortunate would enter the chamber where the brick came. crushing. squashing them. complete.

those that made it out of the maze got special treatment. they would be lifted high between my fingers. and placed upon alone lego brick. hot sun burning down through a magnifying glass. cooking and curling their form. a worthy sacrifice to an unseen god on a plastic alter.

the sun beats down. i lie watching the grass before me. there is another movement. two movements. near each other. two ants this time. making their way across the jungle lawn. are they friends? buddies on a little adventure. did they spend time in their colony of an evening discussing how their day had been? stories of the number of sweet foods found? i bring my thumb down. squash them. fucking ants.

the sun beats down. my lips are parched. but i’m too drowsy to move. i’m enjoying my spot on the grass too much. better to lie here. laying in the heat. i don’t want to move. just to enjoy the warmth on my back. the moment. more movement in the grass. four ants this time.

there was a time when i visited a forest with my parents. a sunday country walk. meant to get us kids away from the tv and invigorate the soul. or some shit like that. ahead of the others. i was clambering down a mud bank. dried earth baked in the sun. brown pine needles littering the earth. down on my back i went. slipping and sliding to the bottom. falling on my arse. i sat there a moment. not realising. not realising i was sat on a group of ants. big fuckers. bigger than the ones we got in our back garden. red and black bodies. shiny like berries. and they bit. oh, how they bit. i screamed and panicked. leapt up away from the ground. brushing frantically at my legs. my feet, they bit more. i don’t know how long i was there screaming and scraping away at my legs with my nails. red raw skin. before my parents came running. consoling. they brushed away the pain. i hated forests after that.

the four ants move across the grass. they are heading my way. i bring my thumb down. the executioner. squashing each one by one.

‘fuck you ants!’ i yell as i kill the last of them. ‘fuck you and all the ants!’

the grass turns to stillness. quiet. tired by the exertion in the sun my eyes droop. close. darkness.

it was the moving sensation that woke me. the sense of bobbing along. like moving on a gentle wave. floating.

i try to open my eyes. but i can’t.

i try to move my hands. but i can’t.

my legs. can’t.

i am bobbing somewhere. moving. being carried by something. i try not to panic. in the blackness. i can feel movement over me. small. tickling. out of reach. it makes me want to scream. but i can’t. my lips are held tight shut.

i try to focus my strength. focus my strength all into my right arm. centre it there. then a sudden movement. a pull. i pull my arm free. claw at my eyes. i can see. i wish i couldn’t.

they don’t fight back. they don’t cover my eyes again. maybe it was a sort of punishment. a way of letting me see the full horror of my situation. my arm is pulled back firmly. i can’t resist.

there are hundreds of them. thousands. thousand upon thousand of small black ants. small black bodies. crawling. moving. on top of me. under me. a thick living blanket of black bodies. constantly on the move. they are all over my mouth. in my ears. around my eyes. i piss myself.

we are in the sun. but are heading somewhere. purposeful. determined. i can’t turn my head to see. all i can see is the sky. crisp white clouds. ocean blue sky of a summer’s day. the ants. then darkness. we have entered somewhere. a tunnel of sorts. it feels as if i’m heading downwards. there is the feint smell of vinegar. we are dipping. along the tunnel. deep. deeper. it seems to be getting warmer the further we go.

i sense movement around me. in the heat. the darkness. and a feint hum. low. on the edges of sound. all around. it is increasing. as we go deeper. like the hum of an old television set when you turn it on. warm. hum. darkness.

then we stop moving. bobbing. downwards. and i feel them turning me. there is light here. i sense a presence. something powerful. i don’t want them to turn me. to see. the hum fills my head. my skull. pressing. my black captors release me. disappear in the dim light. my eyes get accustomed. then i see. and i scream.

the chamber is hot. stuffy. stifling. it stinks of vinegar. strong. overpowering. it stings my eyes. i blink to see. above me. towering over me. in this large chamber. is a huge figure. six limbed. thick as trunks. hairs like thorns. head the size of a small black car. mandibles opening and closing. giant shears that could snap an arm in two. a beast as tall as a house. a giant ant. the god ant. the humming intensifies. painful. and i know it comes from the god ant. it fills my head. i understand it. what it is saying. and it terrifies me.

the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

london

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london has been the inspiration for my writing since i moved here over 25 years ago. from the outside you might think is a humongous whole on crossing the river thames like some great up turned turtle flailing it’s legs. or you might think it is just a large discarded black bin bag discarded carelessly across a stream. both would be somewhat true but inaccurate. fairer to say that london is a collection of towns, neighbourhoods, connected by the web that is the london underground system.
it is known for certain people to rarely leave their particular neighbourhood. to never venture much further than their local high street and corner shops. after all, what need for the centre of the city when you can find what you need on your doorstep? i have known children to have only for the first time to have experienced other polaris of the city, the tube, when taken on school trips with their schools. otherwise their familys stay put.
and who can blame them when you consider the city of london itself, the centre core, is made up of towering office buildings and bars and stores that close over the weekend. what to entice the venturous then? particularly when you factor in the increase in prices should you enter there.`
yet central has much to offer. numerous museums and galleries where you can seek inspiration for a tale. cafes where you can watch the world go by whilst surrounded by works from the past. hidden lanes that lead you to a bygone age of mystery with a pint in a boozer at the end where the decor and clients haven’t changed in years.
then outside of central you have the neighbourhoods. often referred to by their stop on the tube line. in the south: brixton and its caribbean roots gradually gentrifying with the influx of the thirty-somethings in search of their first homes. in the west: richmond where the money lives with leafy parks and pubs upon the thames. in the east: barking with sprawling council estates and descendants of the working class made good. in the north: haringey, the home of protest, upheaval. these are just some places but there are many more and everywhere, the wealthy rub shoulders with the poor divided by the post code they choose to live in.
with such variety and diversity in a living museum of culture, who could not get inspired to write? how could it not play a key role in the work im producing?

hemingway

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i first came across hemingway when doing a course on writing at citylit, london. if you don’t know citylit, it’s an adult learning college locate near holborn tube. that big long road that winds it way down pass theatres and hotels to waterloo bridge and the south bank. citylit runs many creative courses and i heard good things about its writing courses and heard they were doable if on a budget. i’m always on a budget.

the courses are often taught by stabilised writers. this one was taught by scott bradfield. we were often set things to read. and he set us the short story ‘hills like white elephants’ to read. i read it. read it again. it was like a revelation to me. here was a writer cutting out loads of description, reams of adjectives and adverbs, to pare back the story to its essence. the writing was like a fresh of air. a chill winter wind that wakes you from a night of over indulgence. it was like hemingway was giving me permission to do something. something i had long thought.

i had studied literature as part of my ba. a diet of hardy, dh lawrence, and george eliot (oh god, george eliot). they loved their long winding descriptions where a hundred words were better than five. long rolling descriptions of the scenery. adjective upon adjective that wound their way across the pages before a character did something. followed by exposition. how they loved exposition.

i followed this by teaching primary and mainly reading children’s literature. children’s literature loved an adverb and adjective. not forgetting a liberal use of simile and as many words for ‘said’ you could think of. so did the national curriculum. this is what they decided good writing consisted of. no hemingway style for them. you had to use lots of adverbs and adjectives to tick the boxes. not forgetting the whole range of punctuation.

it is not surprising then that this is what i thought writing was. had to be. i had been fed a diet of word types. all the word types. used liberally and often. yet i was not satisfied. why did we have to mention all the senses? in every description? surely, you should focus on the important ones for that scene? and did we really need long passages of description to describe a setting whilst the character was left in limbo? doing nothing. waiting for us to finish. my thinking was we should treat the setting as a character. and f important to the plot. then we spent time on it. but if passing through. was there a need? i began to have doubts over the way writing was taught and the way i wrote.

so reading hemingway gave me approval of my ideas. to leave the adverbs behind. use adjectives sparingly. use five words instead of a hundred. cut writing to the bone. to the essential. to what i considered important. gone were adverbs. i went further. reducing articles. conjunctives. pairing back the range of punctuation. the length of a sentence. reducing the sentence to its minimum. to the minimal point at which it could still be understood.

my prose-poetry is a concentrated version of that. my short stories and the novel i’m working on. less so. grammarly would have a system failure reading those. and i continue to experiment. wonder how further i should push it. the results are here on this website. see what you think.

the photo? the significance of the photo? that’s me in a bar in barcelona that hemingway was meant to frequent. it was meant to have changed little since his time. unlike the bar. i think hemingway has changed writing forever.

moment 24

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the sky is so dark here. real dark. not like the dark of the city which is like a deep, dark blue. illuminated by the streetlights. the lights of shop windows, offices, apartments. the lights of cars going somewhere, quick and fast. a blur of light up from the city, into the sky, making it dark day. the sky is never black in the city. just the colour of uniform. the stars lost, devoured, consumed by the city life. florescent lights are our wonder now. laser lights across the sky, picking out buildings. no room for shadows. nests are filled with birds with insomnia. tablets on a branch. if only we could sleep. the streetlight flickers. blink on. blink off. blink on. turning backs to the light. but here it is real dark. black of soul dark. reaper cowl dark. even trees become invisible. you have to sense them. sound echoes in its closeness. it touches the ground. spreads. over every blade of grass until all are nothing. a void. a board to be chalked upon. above are shapes i had forgotten. shapes like stars. pinpoints of white in the sky.

writing routine

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finding time to write can be problematic. it can affect getting into a routine. and can make the routine or writing habits you follow. many books advocate writing regularly. some say every day. i have never managed that. being busy with family life. and holding down two other jobs to pay the bills can impact on the time you have available. and by time: i’m not just on about physical time. the time to be free from work. i’m also on about the more important mental time. if you have stressful jobs that are mentally taxing and full on then it takes awhile to achieve quietness. the quietness you need to let your imagination play. explore. dance from thought to thought. place to place. if your’e mentally exhausted this takes longer. first you have to recoup. then gain the quietness. then focus on the writing.
so i snatch my quietness. my writing time. it is not regular. or frequent. and due to that. i forget. i forget what i have written before. where i am in my novel. the threads i have set up. i plot but they are brief notes. often single lines for a chapter. a glimpse as to what the chapter may hold. the rest i write on the hoof. by the seat of my pants.
this means i break all the rules of writing. i don’t edit after i’ve written a first draft. despite how many writers recommend this. i write a chapter or section. leave it whilst i turn my attention to family and jobs. return to the writing. read that chapter and edit. write the next chapter. i edit and write as i go.
i tend to find i don’t do a lot of change. maybe it’s because i ponder a lot what the next chapter is going to be. if i can remember it. think about the characters. the situation i left them in. and i’m a slow typist. that helps. i use just two fingers to type. this has the effect of slowing me down. so by the time i write a sentence or word it has been edited in my head several times. the paragraph shaped. that is why some writers advocate writing by hand. to allow time to think.
when i wrote my first novel. it was by hand. and the edits. only at the final stage did i type it up. i still do some writing by pen. my prose-poetry. it is straight from pen to paper then to ipad. a few changes on the way. novels are straight onto ipad.
i use Scrivener. i like the corkboard and how it can be used to easily shift things around or generate an outline. the outline proves very useful writing a synopsis for agents, etc. i write my novels sequentially. i don’t hop to a scene if stuck. some writers do that. but i can’t work that way. i need to solve a problem before i move on. not that i have many problems. due to all the time between chapters and typing it down i usually have them ironed out in my head.
i also make use of a good writing group. it is local to me and offers invaluable insight on what i’ve written. they will point out if something doesn’t quite work or needs fleshing out more. and it provides a good indicator how a reader might react. do they laugh when you intended? were they surprised by an outcome as you wanted? or was it all guessed too earlier in the story, leaving no surprises?
writing groups also give a good incentive to write. you want to make it worthwhile going. to offer something to an audience. to not go empty handed. this keeps you on track.
however you write is up to you. you find your own path. despite what some may think. there is no secret formula to writing a novel or getting a book published. it is all out there. you can read loads of books on the subject for suggestions. but ultimately it is down to you. your words. your effort.

apple

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my mother used to warn me as a child: don’t swallow the pips.
 ‘why?’ i would ask.
 ‘because a tree will grow inside you.’
 but i laughed. it was just one of those things mother said. like: your face will get stuck forever if you pull an ugly face when the wind blows. just a warning to tease kids. a bit of fun. no truth to it. so i would eat my apple. usually a cox’s orange pippin. nice and sweet. juicy.
 skin.
 flesh.
 stalk.
 core.
 pips.
 a tree never grew. no matter how many times i did it. my stomach digested it. the acid inside. the fluids. breaking everything down to nutrients. waste. converting to energy. to be used by the the body.
 i grew up. became a school kid. primary. secondary. young adult. then onto college. such tales discarded. forgotten. there were more important things. girls. cigarettes. alcohol. music. clothes.
i left college with a passable teaching degree and a job in the city. the city. the only city. london. a sprawling mess of towns joined by a tube network. i spent term time focused on my work and career. played the weekends hard.
 it was my habit to return for a week to my mother’s house in the summer. to that country town. in the heart of somerset. not because i liked it. i loathed it. the town. the people there. the narrow minds. the slow ways. it was an obligation. an obligation that i reduced down over the years to one week in summer.
we would sit in the large back garden taking in the sun. sat in rusting garden chairs. cool lemonade to hand. talking about things but not talking. this would last three or four days then i would get restless. the walls of the house and garden confining. suffocating. bearing down with their weight. what was to be said had been said. so i would take off. small pack on my back. four cans of beer. sandwiches. pack of crisps.
 i would set off down the road. past the tin topped houses. bridge over the river. take a right. follow the road. through the new estate. along the lane then the woods. the edges of quiet. a few dog walkers and children. further still. to the country road. pick a direction. set off and see what i would see. small villages and houses. arches made from over hanging trees across long winding roads. take a swig from a can as i went. a bite of sandwich. enjoying the company of one. the solitude. the silence. on i would go. until the beer ran out. then i would turn. head home.
 it had been a busy year. ofsted. the sudden departure of the head. stupid bitch shouldn’t have left her password on the computer. my promotion. the reorganisation of the school. the right people in place. my weekends had got wilder to escape the pressure. half-remembered nights followed by waking up in someone’s bed. a bleary-eyed return to my flat. yesterday’s clothes. a shower. a snack. then out to do it all again.
 so the week away in the summer came as a real break. a break to the pace. the self-destruction. a chance to slow. be still. so we sat. mother and i. in the back garden. sipping lemonade during a particularly hot summer. wasps buzzed around. the air hazy. the soil cracked. grass dry. parched. we talked without talking. then nothing. just the heat. the lemonade. the beat of the sun.
 one night the sky cracked.lightning bolts. the pound of rain. i sat up. watched. a blessed relief. the bed had been hot. clingy. this brought coolness. a change. tomorrow. i decided. i would go on a walk.
i got up early. four cans in the pack. cucumber sandwiches. packet of crisps. and i was off. down the road. past the houses. over the river. take a right. estate. lane. through the woods. into the country. follow a road.
 i had eaten the sandwiches and crisps a while back. and was on my third can of beer when i entered the village. it was unfamiliar to me. more a hamlet. consisting of a few houses and a pub. the black sheep. i wondered how it had lasted there so long with so few customers. but the country was like that. there was always something without explanation. that you couldn’t understand as city folk. and i now considered myself city folk.
 like the house at the end of the hamlet. larger than the rest. too large for such a place. with high grey bricked walls surrounding the garden. it made me wonder what it had to hide. to protect. then i saw it. a large apple tree.
 just poking over the height of the wall. full with large red apples. so many. some were hanging down. almost within reach.
 i finished the third can. looked up at the apples. my stomach felt empty despite the drink. i needed something. a memory of apple scrumping with school friends came back to me. it never did any harm. just the one. the tree had so many. who would notice? i glanced along the road. no cars. no people. i reached up. finger tips grabbing the end. twisted and pulled. it came away. the branch sprung back. 
 ‘oi!’ came a cry.
 it was an old man. in green. through a gate.
 ‘give back that apple.’
 but i laughed. feeling eleven again. and ran. the old man trying to catch up. but i was younger. fitter..
 ‘you mustn’t’ came the cry as i left him.
 i glanced behind me. no old man. no hamlet. just the woods ahead. i would drink the last can. then the apple. my treat.
 the trees towered overhead. sun filtered through the leaves onto the forest floor covered in brown pine needles. the occasional stump. not a sound was heard except the odd branch disturbed by the movement of a bird or something else. i threw the empty can away. turned my attention to my ill-gotten gains. one apple. what a fuss over one apple. when there were so many. so so many. stupid old fool. i bit into its red skin. into its juicy flesh. it was sweet. juice dribbled down my chin. i wanted the all of it. every piece. the stalk. the core. the pips. none must be wasted. it was too good.
 my apple consumed. i set off further into the woods. past the trees. towering overhead. the rustle of birds. dappled light searching. there was a stab of pain in my stomach. sharp. piercing. stopped me in my tracks. another. sharper. it bent me double. skin clammy. face wet. pains down my legs. into my feet. sharp. cutting.
 my shoes seemed to press against my feet. shoes too small. tight. my feet hot. burning. i had to get my shoes off. now. i fought the pain in my stomach. untied the laces. shoes off. socks. to see my feet. at first nothing. as i stood bent. just pale pink flesh. toes. nails.
 a flash of heat. then a change to the skin. darkening. browning. thickening. the nails on my large toes split. divided. fell off. a terrible. my remaining nails popped. then thin. brown tendrils. burst through the skin.
 like teeth through grapes. brown tendrils twisting to the ground. into it. a few at first. then more. hot burning pain in my feet as roots burst through my heels. then all sides. into the ground. i scream.
 skin thickening all over. i try to rip my shirt off. but my skin is thickening. tightening. compressing. i find it hard to breathe. i try to gasp for breath. but i can’t breathe. i can’t breathe.
 hell. i can’t move. i’m stuck here. stuck. a hot burning sensation in my head. like someone stabbing with blades. 
 then the burning stops. and silence. just me. alone. in the woods. unable to move. the silence. a bird overhead.
 i can just see. a figure. a figure in green. he’s holding something. an axe. he’s holding an axe.
 ‘they never learn.’
 and. i can’t scream.

moment 22

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i sit by lake coniston watching the water ripple across the surface surrounded by tree banked hills and the gentle curve of mountains. the sun dances on the water celebrating the day, the break of storms and torrential summer rain. swans glide curious at the commotion but proud to show off their young to any who will give them attention. the launch leaves the jetty, sending great ripples to unnerve the newborn rowers and offering a moments excitement to the many paddle boarders with glaring colours of orange and green. the screams of children splashing and the chatting of adults in the sun. tea cups clink in the bluebird cafe as orders are yelled by the staff. a wave of sound fills the air flattening the moment as smoke rises from campfires away in the woods. what would wordsworth have made of his beloved hills and water? would he have found the time to stop and think, to channel god’s talent and compose? or would the constant din of activity stifle and consume, killing thought in its grasp of sound, a black cloud of storm thunder smothering, drenching the poet, blotting his page, words obliterated as soon as thought of, all consumed by the downpour? what then to history? the writer’s lost to a life dull and obscurity, not the conversation in a white cottage or the delight of a sister, but sad mournful days of what could have been, if only, if only.