WRITE ON, CHELTENHAM

Creative juices have been flowing at the Social Group in Cheltenham! People have been writing and sharing poetry and short stories. They even performed at a poetry slam at the local Everyman Theatre.

Here, volunteer Pauline Currien and group members Annie Ellis and Russell Partridge share some of their writing

The Mare at Dawn

You’re the chevalier on a dark chestnut mare

I am the sound of neighing in the dawn

When the windows are open and the first light beckons

You take the lead and gird me where you will,

Tightening my rein and keeping me still …

So what will become of your old chestnut mare alone in the field tethered to an old tree?

Will you feed her sweet grass from your meadow

And write her poems and sing dreams of what life could be?

Sadly neglected, the time passes;

We have no way of knowing what you will do with me.

Pauline Currien

Hair

My hair keeps my ears warm

I can do all sorts of things with it

It can be used to hide my eyes from people

or pulled back it allows me to see into the souls in other people’s eyes.

Put it up, it cools me down

On a windy day it gets in my way

I like to shake it around when I listen to music or dancing

it gives me my freedom

If I am feeling brave I can get it coloured.

My hair has been Red White Blue

I can tie ribbons in it or flowers

Or sometimes I just leave it loose.

My hair can be used to tell you things about me

If I want to tell you that is!

Pauline Currien

Small and Mighty

They call me a dwarf, they call me a midget.

I may be small but I will be mighty.

They stare at me cross the road so they don’t walk near me

I may be small but I will be mighty.

At school I was bullied every day,

they hit me on the chest, stamped on my feet

I may be small but I will be mighty.

Everyone treats me like an alien, except for my friends. I may be small but I will be mighty

A brain disease took my daughter from me,

now it will take my husband.

I may be small but I will be mighty.

You can’t pull wool over my eyes

my world will still carry on.

I am small but I will also be mighty.

Annie Ellis

Stepping Out

In a life not well lived, finding her wings

She prepares to take flight. Not confined by expectation

In her humble home, books she loves Talk of far-off places, beyond her dreams

All absurdly funny in the booming fifties.

Laura, captivated in her new-found freedom

Meets a man on the train with an irreverent comic mind,

A lady who loves her two little dogs more than life,

Eats piping hot meals prepared by someone else,

Still longs for love when her hair caresses the pillows

But knows it will soon awaken.

Out of a plain house somewhere down the line,

The man of her dreams steps forth

Whether he’s the man who broke the bank

And lost the cargo or not;

She wants to be stepping out.

Russell Partridge

The Race

The early July sun is unforgiving and the air is infused with grass pollen after a wet, verdant June There is a whiff of sun cream on the faintest zephyr of breeze and floppy white hats and floral dresses abound. Some of the parents have donned dusty sandals for the first time since the l ast glorious summer

The boys are lined up in their grey shorts, the girls in matching grey pinafore dresses The parents watch their offspring as the children tremble with anticipation. Jimmy at a tender five-and-three-quarter years and with distinctive lean legs and knock knees is looked upon with particul ar affection by Margaret and Peter and Miss Campbell, the headmistress. Mr Jones carries a l arge bowl of potatoes along the line and pl aces them carefully on the tarnished outstretched spoons with an endearing correctness. Each child seems to smile broadly on receipt of their own potato and a glow of self-importance cascades down the line like a mini waterfall on rocks.

Jimmy sneezes loudly and his potato makes a dull thud on the still damp grass. His immediate neighbours Jack and Paul l augh disdainfully at his misfortune He stoops awkwardly avoiding their gaze and trying to focus on Mum and Dad in the crowd while retrieving his potato.

Margaret and Peter wave frantically and Jimmy regains his composure and steadies himself with all his youthful resolve. Just then Miss Campbell speaks to the line of children in a confident and encouraging manner and raises the thin white tape. Twelve excited participants scamper off the eighty yards across the pl aying field in the now shimmering heat haze. Appl ause and relief exude from the parents and teachers as potatoes wobble before cross-eyed stares Jimmy finishes fourth, ahead of Jack and Paul. A tear slips down his mother’s cheek.

Russell Partridge

Before the Flood

My river’s source might be near to that of the Indus; soon gushing and crashing through the rugged Karakoram It ends up almost listlessly meandering through the Sindh province surrounded by baking hot pl ains under steely sunshine throughout the day Where it issues sluggishly through a complex delta into the Arabian Sea, gather many busy people riding bicycles in a plethora of sizes and shapes. Tooting of horns cuts across the sultry air and people selling their wares at the market from horse-drawn carts needing a coat of paint wear sandals as weather-beaten as their faces The well-dressed women redolent of spicy perfume watch the l anguid progress of small boats chugging through the narrow waterways Piloted by grim faced gentlemen smoking thin cigars, who are probably happier than their demeanour suggests, they queue to take weary families home.

Russell Partridge