Writing on the Wall

Read as waves break on the shore during their ceremony in York Harbour U.S.A.

5th September 2010

A regular Saturday
pub-banter is dull
Jamie’s beer somehow pallid
no colour no sun,
on screen more commercials
no action no fun.

It is then that he sees her
this vision in red
and loves lucid fire
sparks in him instead.

This rose of a woman
she blooms in his sight
brings heat to his chest
he thinks he’ll ignite,

she’s glinting on glasses
on bottles, the bar-top
his heart is unravelling
his legs they are travelling
his feet will not stop.

Being fearfully British
he swallows his pride
and in a few paces,
is stood, with a mate, at her side.

Beth with her friend
turns round, went to say -
as he got close -
I’m not interested - clear off - go away!

But his method of speech
his tone and his height
she thinks – mmmm – well -
I just might…
This goofy-guy he has charm
he’s nice and he’s English
what could be the harm?
And
Oh
how that accent slipped under her guard-
such a cute curiosity,
she couldn’t be hard.

The night it flashed past
they got on so well
but what was to unfold
no-one could tell.

Time passes. No news.
Beth’s all a flutter.
We’re on the third week.
She wants to see him.
But is it her that he’ll seek?

Then a holiday rental
last minute he caught
not hard to imagine
whose friendship he sought.

Yes of course it was Beth
no doubt about that
her company playful,
so easy to chat.

Time together it flew by,
and this sweet English-gent
became Beth’s  Mr. July.

Adventurers both
they’ll skim up a tree
like squirrels for chestnuts,
loved rambling free
exploring the mansions
then a swim in the sea.

From far distant shores
in Newport they’d met
by coincidence and chance
could their love seal be set?

To wander and wonder
get caught by surprise
when they just goof about
catch the look in their eyes.

Hear their echoes on lakes
tackling streams in full flood
they are brave and courageous
tides surge in their blood.

Two shapes by a campfire,
a late summer date
this Yellowstone adventure
cemented their fate.

Stars pinned up high
in that heavenly dome
fortell that Vancouver
could soon become home.

So with Beth’s two white kitties
Jamie heads out
he prays that she’ll join him
and not turn-about.

She is a queen in his eyes
he’s good and he’s kind,
says ‘we must be together
please don’t change your mind’.

And lucky for him, for us
our Beth knew
and invited us here
to witness it’s true.                               

Beverley Fry.  2010

it’s mid-morning, a warm wind clings,
loosely fills and flaps the folded sunshades long lapels,
evasively hovers between mating butterflies,
then rises into a thronging twitter of new-flown
house-martins jetting in blue air.

By my open door sit three carriers
they burst with shrubs to be planted.
Radio 4 speaks ‘double-dip recession‘,
words and birdsong merge,
gloss on fruiting apples,
in shade a rhythmic flick of horse-tails
swat each others flies.

This is today, the cat is at the vets.
I await results. Houseplants look dry.
Neglect nags with dishes in the sink.
The computer screen shines bright;
photos from the day before hide concentration;
the life model, studies made, a festive meal,

but this is today. White hot on paper.
It glints and winks on silver bangles.
Is warm in black cat fur on a bleached bench.

Today is patient with knowledge,
that I pick from possibilities,
from a bouquet tossed to stretched hands
pushing out of nights chrysalis.

Awkward legs swing down,
bare feet touch cold tiles
take the days weight on
standing heals spreading toes.
Awake in moments between steps,
between thoughts,
between breaths.
Those pauses that say,
you’re here,
this is today.

…..now in summer this single girl needs something to do, and a fruity weekend is a big temptation.

So here it is in photos and there’s still Sunday to come.
 
The birds left some cherries for me on my small tree.
Hugely abundant this year with its fat red beads.
Blackcurrants dangled grapelike as they fought for sun through the nettles beneath the apple tree and have rendered me five pots of jelly-jam.
Not totally sure it has set though.
 
The Buddha bed has a flourish of raspberries that grew themselves.
The rain plumped them and in an hour of afternoon sun between showers, permitted picking.
Pulling them off, my hands cupped them gently, and filled, in this soft hold with juicy fruit.
I will bake a sweet butter-base using corn flour and ground almonds. Allow it to cool and cover with the raspberries. Maybe get some cream… yum.
 
The rosy cherries, pairs I will hook gypsy fashion on my ears, others I’ll eat raw.
 
And must squeeze in some other jobs,
check on the poorly cat, Mitsie, also fix the hem of my skirt for Tango tonight and now on radio 4’s Saturday Womans Hour they are discussing Mens Hour.
 
Well I could spare a few minutes,
after all  I am feeling fruity…