Write On Anthology

WRITE ON ANTHOLOGY

a series of creative writing workshops June 2017 with Fiona Collins

Su Hardiman’s Creative Writing…

Through the window – focusing on a small space Through the briar The sweet smelling briar.

Blushed pink petals open their beauty, To encapsulate the light of the day.

Soft lime leaves Diminish into tightly folded buds of new beginnings.

Bees dance with an abundant delight.

Hordes of midges Eagerly feast on warm flesh.

Dance like snowflakes across the vista.

Beyond the twist of thorny stems.

The foxglove tall and stout Sways with the gentle rush of diverted waters.

Rooted in the lees of broken rock Her cerise vibrant bells hang to the earth Secret chambers of sweet delight.

Framed by veracious frons of ferns Uncurling like a rug thrown to earth.

The Waterfall Persistent in its deluge A thunderous cascade Ribbons of lace Curtains to a secret world.

Verdant green mosses cling to dampened slate Constantly refreshed in the nectar of life.

Blunted knives of jiggered rock hang above the tree line.

Each crevice a home, A secret world beyond prying eyes.

Oak, sycamore and fir stand tall Sentries of the fall.

Hollowed shade frequented by ferns and foxgloves alike.

Lichen, the star studded skies of slate faces, From which the tear drops of life chisel their path Free falling in ecstatic dance of disconnection and connection Fresh earth the scent it carries in its splaying torrent.

The call of the fine feathered peacock, an iridescent king, marked the start. The first steps with their smoothed slate treads, always the most dangerous, awaiting the slip of an ardent fool. Sentries of foxgloves flagged the path, a joyous riot of cerise the waving crowd. Rocks laid like walls contained one thoughts. Ancestral roots of stout trees gave a better footing on the undulating trail to a fairy dell land, honeycombed with stories, each in its turn a holder of dreams.

Wandering aimlessly through the tracks of bracken, watching for vipers, those fork tongued memories that come back to bite us, as one retreat from the first precipice dead end. The mark of yester year, distinguished hope of the open hearted fool.

Each rock bends its self to a comfortable chair, a place to rest and lose oneself in the swaying grasses of memory. If I sat long enough would I become a sturdy tree rooted in bygone wishes? Or will I just be lunch for the small winged vampires, the rules and regulations of societies dictates. Or surrender to the niggling doubts of fear and write a health & safety manual to keep the heart safe, with the soft moss of illusion the comforting pillow beneath my cheeks.

No this will not do, the path must be re-trod and another direction found, before the busyness of the present takes hold and the mire of the mundane holds me fast. But which path? The well-worn path of compounded grit laid down by succession; the expected path of conformity. To my left the English rose, the legacy of generations, inherited emotions. The gushing sound of flowing waters leads one to the lower pool, where a single pied wagtail feasts upon those pesky vampires of base line thought. In the shallow depth of the richly encrusted pool, fishes dart camouflaged by the tawny stones. A bottom draw full of hope, now forgotten and lost beneath the dusts of time.

From the sediments of youthful expectations winged feet carry me to the middle realm, where fewer dare to tread. Where celandines add golden brocade to the green banners that stripe the flags of slate. Alone now, off the beaten path, the thunderous roar the only gong of sound. A yellow wagtail sips the cools waters, embodying moments of freedom. Yet never straying far from the abundance of nature’s nurturing, carving his own patch. Like humans to the family call. Glancing upwards I sense the eyes watching from afar, like in some urban estate, privacy can only be found in the recesses of the mind. As one draws nearer one can see that the tumbling waters of the middle fall do nor run crystal clear but like the innocence of childhood are tainted cream by the environment from which it pours.

I become the monstrous mountain sides, angular and worn offering a bridge (a natural formation in the falls) into new perceptions, smoothed and wrinkled by life’s flow. Is this where my soul will come to rest, peace meeting contentment eliminating rough riding adventure. No more delving below or rising above. A pool of swirling waters both shallow and deep nestled in the hands of stone.

The spray adds to the dull chill of the day, as the wedding party descends, taking charge of my resting place with the staid demands of the perfect photo. A reminder of an empty space. This is a time of celebration of closeness and love, a place where I have no home. The call of my name and the smell of coffee draws me back to where the journey began. For now all is conjecture, written words upon the page.

Lake Vyrnwy The Studio Slated roof bowing gently to the centre.

A shelter obscured by signs.

The curved aperture of a buses window, Let’s light cascade into its heart.

Plastic guttering the homely touch.

Dusted cobwebs sentries in every recess.

Bards linger amongst the spidery hosts, Lost in the written word.

Uniformed bright green furniture Set in corporate magnolia walls.

Carpeted in last season’s leaves.

A gaggle of laughter, Draws the men near.

Lingering at the door, Like flies around meat.

The studio, home to us all, Borrowed for moment.

From gossiping tongues And market day frequenters.

The Bird hide Walk Buds of pink, the beginnings of love.

Pocketed wisdom of violet clover.

Innocence graced in the pale petal of the briar.

Cuckoo spit nestles in the crook of grasses, Life in its infancy.

Thistles stout and tall, Warns of dangers.

Tranquil waters lap at the tree lined edge.

Adding illusion to our dreams.

Buttercups the fairy markers.

High rise insect apartments protrude above the protective holly.

Like a city skyline.

Cones spiral on stunted beech nude of leave, Clinging tight to the memory of youth.

Ferns throw frons to the light, In the swish of a skirt.

Fallen trees, straight and true, A marker to winters ferocious bite.

Climbing to the next level Cleared earth, where growth is sparse And mosses begin to birth.

Bird song the choir to which we dance On the soft carpet of lees blanketing the gravelled path.

Rough realities of skinned knees.

The air perfumed by chloroformed growth, With straight shafts they stand Like arrows to the heavens.

Raindrops hang in globules upon the skins of grasses.

Tears cupped in the clovers hands.

Suffocating ivy slow to take her toll.

Stacked damp logs, no good for the fire.

Stone steps worn and puddled begin the descent,

A wooden bridge riddled with rot Carries the feet across the meandering fall That plays peek-a-boo behind the lush abundant fauna.

Trickling down on slabs of rock.

Awaiting the next fall, Anticipating the union with like-minded form.

An open vista greets the eye.

Hard wet chairs awaits the flesh of cheeks.

Grand palaces of distant lands, nestle in green splendour, The callings of new adventures.

Colourful boats, orange and blue, rattle in their moorings, Come quickly they remark, I will carry you to the Promised Land.

Across the deep dark waters of emotions, To where the purple trees grow.

Stone bridged arches the sentries that hold back the graveyard of the heart.

Tranquil waters shimmer between the knots of branches clinging to dry land.

Shadows reflecting on obsidian waters, Defining each breathe of air.

Wells of sadness, Skeletons of the depths.

A hoverfly with a boot polished face and barber pole stripes Alights the written page.

The calling into the now as the mist descends, Cloaking the distant beach, the place where souls unfold.

The future lies behind the veil Shrouded in mystery.

Swallows dance with prayerful glee, Pollen laden grasses the bouquet of the day.

Like the weather the future remains indecisive.

Turning to the tarmac track, Rusted broken barriers of yester year Give access to the totem of feathered friends.

Their pecking order stated like a roll call.

A heart shape petal, lies adrift,

Dressed only in a myriad of water droplets.

The infinite in the invisible.

The sculpture Park In this fairy-tale land Of wooden banks, aligning rich sediment waters.

I seek the white hart, captured in a sunbeam.

Mother earth holds her child, Forests sprouting from her hair.

The carding weir filters enchantments of sleeping roads.

Open spaces lanced with trees Lift my eyes to lightening skies.

A midget’s hermitage hides behind the wise oak, Where grey light meets green air.

A throne upon a manicured lawn, the resting place of thought.

Jimmy cricket manifests as a young bee aloft my breasted coat.

We gaze across treacle coloured waters.

Hansel & Gretel’s lure the focus of the tour.

I wonder if the witch is at home, tending to her spells.

Stone granite walls rise and fall, Gently dipping out of sight The defences of enchanted waters.

Home to sleeping beauties of the past And a chapels watery grave.

Copper leafed beech’s form the central stage, Slender firs the props.

Swallows now the dancing troubadours of an impromptu stage.

The land smells sweet, A candytuft of fragrance hides in a secret place.

Illusion is rife As Rapunzel lets down her hair unnoticed in the red woods.

Spirit guardians crafted in wood The labours of an artists’ hand, Weathered and worn.

Amongst a deep dense sea of green Pilgrims prayers left by forgotten princes, way signs to the enchanted woods, Where princesses may be found And old enchantments should be left to sleep In hollow branches they call home.

Jan Hedger’s Creative Writing

Lake Formation Canoes strung in shape of a Spanish Fan unfurled cool down summer’s air

Freedom Cast out from lake, rushing over the weir The Vyrnwy runs pure and crystal clear Where oak stands tall and the ash leans o’er Deepened soul of water here runs slower Bathing the stones, washing their face Smoothing the pebbles in sculptured space As on it travels tween depths of green With rippled sound and peace pristine

A Few Steps from the Road I breathe the smell of moistened green Twisting, tangled undergrowth neath Dripping canopy of shadow- light; as Foxgloves pierce through, spear like On single stems of royal bells, deep With nectar for searching bees.

A Chiff Chaff greets me repeatedly

Calling of its identity; a Robin trills Voices of cyclists filter then disappear As I pause on the soft absorbing path Self-Seeking in this woodland; who am I? With lake side edge; a whisper away.