Aynho Writers

Images in Red and Gold
                                                                                                                                               
Late September shadows lengthen
Summer’s sun begins to fade
Dew descends on lawns and pasture

Winter Magic
 
November’s winter gloom, lightened only by bonfire night with its smells of mulled wine and scorched blue touch paper, is an evocation of a childhood yearned for throughout our adult lives.  Soon it will be Christmas.  Thoughts of the approaching festive season fill our hearts with yet more nostalgia – memories that stay forever.  With any luck, snow will grace the landscape covering all man-made imperfections, dusting trees in magical splendour.
 
A garden in winter is pure theatre.  Lean hedges and bare grass create a stage for the low winter sun to play a leading role.  Long shadows stride across lawns; deep, dark shade possesses sinister corners; and side-lighting glances across the bleached bones of summer past.  It’s time now to write the script and cast the players for next year’s performance.
 

Finding Charlie
 
My father, Fred Smith, was born in 1900, the third child of a family of eight, five boys and three girls.  Dad’s story, or fragments of it, came out over the years, supplemented by various members of his family, and it helped me to try to understand his treatment of my brother and me.
 
He was a bad tempered, tetchy and at times, violent man of whom we were both justifiably terrified.  His early childhood was one of terrible poverty and neglect and those eight little children suffered badly.  My grandfather was, in Edwardian terms, a real rotter.  A ship’s hairdresser by trade, he was a colourful character with his flowing curly red hair and whiskers.
 

Just In Case
 
This is the story of a life distraught but not destroyed; a pageant played in sequence in the eyes of your imagination.
 
So first imagine this; a rich evening of late summer. A spacious, gracious room whose windows open onto a garden terrace where in the afternoon the sun had warmed those who chose to take tea, or read, or admire  with quiet delight the flowers in the richness of their beauty. Now all are gathered; the comfortable chairs describe an arc to face the light of the setting sun. This is a literary evening and a poet stands and prepares to read his work. All is quiet, the chatter stilled, each guest attentive, ready to be stirred by the chosen word and the apt phrase. The poet rises and begins to read. He knows the importance of eye-contact so his eyes rove here and there across the rows of chairs and faces; he knows no-one, for he is a visitor here. All are listening, for he reads well and speaks his words alive, but in all the unknown faces, one face attracts – a woman sitting in the far corner of the room. Her gaze never falters; she engages with his art and seeks intent to draw into her soul the beauty of the poetry she hears. He will not forget her.