Beneath God’s arches resides the travelling table, Its glistening onyx boards a contradiction.
After all, it should not be here, how is it possible after its 5000-year journey?
One fair day as the Stone Age drew to a close an acorn took root amongst the giant oak forests in the East Anglian Fenlands.
As the moon cast its ethereal light upon the monumental 60-metre trees the sapling flourished.
It joined the canopies of the other oaks Shrouding the people beneath Protecting, becoming part of their landscape.
This, the Jubilee Oak, was indestructible. Until the world altered. Until the sea levels rose. Roots loosened, it crashed To its airless grave.
Untouched for five millennia Resting in the pitch black of peat A preserver. Untouched until the 21st Century, When at last Unearthed!
Fourteen metres of black oak released from its shroud of earth Fourteen metres of jet-black oak trunk Survived, intact.
The magical fusion of the ground’s iron and the tree’s tannins creating the black in the oak ensuring this holy grail of wood.
Experts consulted, advised and directed, a sawmill from Canada flew to help To saw on site Ten perfect consecutive boards.
With the craft of carpentry the combination of skill and passion the unity of artistry and knowledge ALL paid HOMAGE to the beloved Oak Tree
A table designed, boards planed and dried. The Table for the Nation completed.
In majesty, it resides beneath God’s arches.
Now it is time to pay OUR respects.
In reverential silence, visitors gaze upon the table, making a pilgrimage along its length Then back up on the other side.
Fingers caressing the boards, eyes admiring the sheen of darkness. A play of light and dark, An incongruous anomaly in reality.
Now and then people bend down, Admiring the copper sheath below, Then up they appear, once again walking along tracing the winding mysterious curves of the boards
Sweeping curves mirroring the expansive Fenland Landscape, as sweeping as the sea that failed to devour it.
Note: The above post was inspired by a visit to view the Jubilee Oak tree while it was in residency at Ely Cathedral, Cambridgeshire, UK. (It is currently at Rochester Cathedral, Kent.) The table was unveiled in honour of HM Queen Elizabeth II in 2022, the year of the Platinum Jubilee and hence its name.
The ancient oak trees grew to a height of 60 metres (197 feet) and dwarf oaks of today whose average height is about 20 metres (65 feet).
Read more about The Fenland Black Oak Project here.
Private people, political pawns Scratching for survival on the barren plains. Tufts of autumn grasses, scraggly skeleton trees A frozen mist of grey descends on them all.
Flickering flames fight for life beneath four large twigs crossed unevenly above the mound of ashes.
Vacant eyes stare despairingly. The route to freedom pushes back Behind them an equally determined force hems them in. No return to civilisation.
Trapped, the human hostages wait. For Life. Or for Death.
As usual the world watches on. Albeit through distorted crackly images sent from the migrants’ phones. The Press refused entry by both sides.
In the glare of publicity, but not. In our sights, but not.
Days become nights. Tens of migrants become hundreds. Hundreds turn to thousands.
In an area bereft of anything There is even less than nothing.
The masses gather at hastily slung up rolls of barbed wire.
The Border.
Words are thrown through the gaping holes of mesh, Stones are hurled across the countries. SNIP SNAP. Shears ineptly attack the coiled boundary.
15,000 official soldiers ahead. Unknown army thugs to the rear. 2,000 imprisoned, homeless, unrepresented. No voice. No advocate.
Humanity at its basest.
As the verbose political volleys are strewn across the air waves, As political threats are met by counter-threats People Die. All hope diminished.
Resolutions are passed in amiable assemblies Discussions continued over replete repasts. Morsels from these luncheon tables But a dream to the Trapped.
Flown in by a malfeasant country on the wings of promises, of easy access to the West, of bright futures.
However much one might question such nativity. The truth remains: No one leaves their home for uncertainty. No one endures such hardship. Without real and absolute cause.
As the hoards gather in the frozen murk Ghostly beings wander the earth Human beings abandoned by the world.
For once, why not take the high ground? For once, why not do what is morally right?
Let governments continue their wrangling, Let world organisations issue their impotent irresolute decrees.
For NOW
At the border, save the people. Allow orderly documented entry From there seek the best way forward.
For NOW
May humanity take a step forward, Through the murk, across the wire.
Thank goodness for the blogging challenges that inspired Sally Cronin’s Life’s Rich Tapestry Woven in Words. An enriching and engaging collection of verse, micro fiction and short stories, her work is mesmerising, always uplifting and often humorous. Throughout humanity and the spirits of humans (and some animals) is a beacon of hope for us all.
Sally’s poetry is enticing, thoughtful and soothing; they are written tightly within the framework of syllables for various formats such as haikus and tankas yet explore a vast range of topics encompassing the wonder of the seasons, recognising human frailties and celebrating the warmth of togetherness. She manages to take us on a journey from cave drawings to digital code across the universe, from the mystical of the ugly troll with his bewitching music in The Moonlight Concerto to the enchantment of Fairies!
As a writer, one poem – an ode to writing – particularly struck a chord with me:
The Freedom to write
The freedom and time to create written words to be read by those open to our thoughts intoxicating.
by Sally Cronin
Sally Cronin is a master storyteller and I was immediately drawn into the lives of the characters in all her short stories. Her writing flows with ease and self-assurance within this diverse selection of short stories. I was moved by the reunion of siblings, impressed how a story told through the point of view of a polar bear both touched me and touched on environmental issues. The reason for a black sheep was raised in one story and had me smiling as did My Mouse, a clever play on words and a predicament experienced by most of us!
The superb stories in The Underdogs section had me in awe of the strength of the individual personalities of the dogs. Later, in For the Love of Lily, I was cheering on as eighty-year-old Millicent found her courage to stand up to her overbearing son with the help of her cat Lily and her kindly neighbour Eric. This was an excellent depiction of what I hope isn’t a scenario that takes place often.
The final longer pieces in the book are under the title of Speculative Fiction and these are all exceptional and shows Sally Cronin’s incredible imagination and ability in writing across all genres.
A moment of alignment is superlative and left me with goosebumps (of the happy variety!) as a child, following her death, manages to cross from the other world for the briefest of times on certain occasions to talk to her mother. Great Aunt Georgina left me tear-eyed and is a wonderful and powerful story partly told through the use of old letters; a deft use of an evocative writing technique. The Enhancement Project combines the tantalising hint of romance between a surgeon and her patient cyborg, all against the backdrop of the end of civilisation. It is a terrific blend of human and futuristic, of dark and light, love and destruction.
I can’t recommend Life’s Rich Tapestry Woven with Words highly enough and look forward to reading more of Sally Cronon’s books.
Sally Cronin is the author of fifteen books including her memoir Size Matters: Especially when you weigh 330lb first published in 2001. This has been followed by another fourteen books both fiction and non-fiction including multi-genre collections of short stories and poetry.
As an author she understands how important it is to have support in marketing books and offers a number of FREE promotional opportunities in the Café and Bookstore on her blog and across her social media.
Her podcast shares book reviews and short stories Soundcloud Sally Cronin
After leading a nomadic existence exploring the world, she now lives with her husband on the coast of Southern Ireland enjoying the seasonal fluctuations in the temperature of the rain.
Sally’s magazine blog for lovers of health, food, books, music, humour and life in general is Smorgasbord Blog Magazine.
As I headed out into the garden one sunny February afternoon a movement caught my eye; upon the decking the wooden swing seat was gently swaying and for a moment or two endless possibilities swarmed to my mind. A ghostly being seemed to have taken comfort upon the seat, enjoying the wintry sunlight. Alas, the reality is most likely far more mundane and the breeze caught the slats as if a sail.
However, the image would not go away. Luckily I’d taken a video and soon poems came unbidden to me. Here are a couple of them.
The first is in a traditional Haiku format composed of only three lines. The first line of Haiku has 5 syllables, the second line has 7 syllables, and the third has 5 syllables.
ROCKING
Childhood memories Sway with mysterious ease Gentle cosseting.
My second poem is a form called Eyeverse and is a four-line poem based around an image. The name was coined by mslexia, a British magazine for women writers founded in 1999 which releases four editions a year.
MOMENTS
Tea spilled on your torn jeans My curls tousled through your fingers Our first youthful kisses A mere ghostly presence.
I recall a time of hugs
Welcomes by a handshake,
a kiss.
Now young children dutifully step
back
From the ‘danger’ of me,
others, all.
They only run towards their friends
Pull up
Short!
Stop!
Embarrassed glances at their shoes
Shy peeks at each other.
Laughter breaks the frightened spell.
Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter.
Their magic world
Reactivated.
by Annika Perry
Statistics. So cold and harsh. So black and white. Or so it seems for most of the time. Figures are just that, bland numbers that do not touch us directly, relating to the inanimate rather than the animate.
But statistics of deaths are another matter.
As day in, day out, the news networks report on the tally for today’s dead from the virus, we are in danger of becoming immune from what they really mean … each one a precious life.
The tragic daily role-call of death, captured in merely a couple of minutes, has shaken me to the core. It’s as if so many forget that behind each individual number is a person. No longer alive. Mourned by so many, loved ones who could not even be by their side in their last moments.
One lady sought refuge within her grief to pen a poem in memory of her beloved sister. A poem that speaks for all who have lost a family member these months, and alas the months ahead.
A poem that should survive and be a legacy of this cruel time.
Dorothy Duffy wrote the poem in honour of her sister Rose ‘Billy’ Mitchell who died alone in a nursing home in the UK as a result of the virus. Rose and Dorothy are both of Irish descent, living in England.
Dorothy (right) & Rose
Below is Dorothy Duffy’s poem and beneath is a radio interview with her where she reads her work aloud. Do listen and follow the words of the poem for an unforgettable, heartfelt and moving anthem to loss and suffering.
Rose Duffy
My sister is not a statistic
Tomorrow, when the latest Deathometer of Covid is announced in sonorous tones, Whilst all the bodies still mount and curl towards the middle of the curve Heaped one atop and alongside the other My sister will be among those numbers, among the throwaway lines Among the platitudes and lowered eyes, an older person with underlying health conditions, A pitiful way to lay rest the bare bones of a life.
My sister is not a statistic
Her underlying conditions were Love Kindness Belief in the essential goodness of mankind Uproarious laughter Forgiveness Compassion A storyteller A survivor A comforter A force of nature And so much more
My sister is not a statistic
She died without the soft touch of a loved one’s hand Without the feathered kiss upon her forehead Without the muted murmur of familiar family voices gathered around her bed, Without the gentle roar of laughter that comes with memories recalled Evoked from a time that already seems distant, when we were connected by the simplicity of touch, of voice, of presence.
My sister is not a statistic
She was a woman who spanned the seven ages. A mother A grandmother A great grandmother A sister A Friend An aunt A carer A giver
My sister is not a statistic
And so, she joins the mounting thousands
They are not statistics on the Deathometer of Covid
They are the wives, mothers, children, fathers, sisters, brothers, The layers of all our loved ones If she could, believe me when I say, she would hold every last one of your loved ones, croon to and comfort them and say – you were loved. Whilst we who have been left behind mourn deep, keening the loss, the injustice, the rage. One day we will smile and laugh again, we will remember with joy that, once, we shared a life, we knew joy and survived sadness.
You are my sister…….. and I love you.
Copyright Dorothy Duffy 2020
Finally, although Dorothy has featured on numerous radio and television/youtube interviews and many of you might have already seen and heard her poem, I am grateful to Roy McCarthy for sharing a post about her poem on his blog Back on the Rock.
Spring’s breeze strokes my cheek Star flower heralds warm days Storm warning – keep safe!
These past few days have been the sunniest for months and numerous walks in woods, along the coast, inspired me to write the haiku above.
Spring is so close, almost tangible, yet the threat of the latest tempest this weekend returns us to the winter gloom. Before Storm Ciara, a severe gale, coursed its way across the UK we headed outside enjoying the glory of nature to the utmost. Soon enough we needed to retreat indoors to the cosiness of home.
Out on the daily meditations, I remember that not only Mother Nature can lift us high, music also has a sublime ability to reach our inner core.
One piece that recently touched me so is a piano cover by Sammy Perry of Odesza’s song ‘A Moment Apart’. It is one of Sammy’s favourite songs from their album.
Listening to this my spirits soar. I imagine spring, life itself, unfurling. It is peaceful, magical and inspirational. Enjoy!
Annika Perry 