Platitudes and Silence

Staring through the window I sit
nursing a mug of tea.
The swish of tyres after recent rain
and the squawks of  parakeets
foraging in the flame tree
are background noise to my thoughts.
Thoughts of disbelief.
Thoughts of anger.
Colours mute as the sun descends.
Long shadows fall across the yard.
My phone beeps, more news.
I don’t look.
Enough bad news for one day.
‘Atrocities believed to have happened on Nauru.’
Believed to?
How can a government be so callous,
so cold,
so lacking in compassion?
I don’t want news.
I want answers.
But I don’t get answers.
All we get are platitudes
and silence.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/silence/

 

Notebooks

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I think even if I was never to be published my notebooks would be a witness to my writing. More tangible than the digital word and more private in that they were never meant to be read by anyone other than me.

There were hardback books, soft books, large books, small books, exercise books and note pads. In the beginning I diarised and doodled, sometime I’d stick in a ticket or something meaningful – to me at least. Other times I’d try to draw something  that I had failed to describe in words or had been unable to record in a photograph. Fragments of the story of my life.

Even after our first computer it still felt good to fill a page with words, especially the private words only I wanted to bear witness to. Over the years it wasn’t just one computer in the household, but laptops and other devices appeared. My digital efforts increased as the pen lay dormant. But I was always drawn to a  beautiful notebook, I’d run my fingers over the blank page and feel the weight of quality paper.

Now I flit between both worlds. My writings are more capacious and based in fiction. The words often need rearranging, the pages change as the editing takes over and I find I need the speed of a computer. Those immediate thoughts or sparks of ideas I have to write down when I’m out and about, fill the small notebooks, leather-bound or fabric covered, chosen carefully for their beauty and size, that take turns to sit in my handbag. Sometimes these jottings are transferred to join the longer stories and manuscripts that build up on my computer, or they join the growing pile of memories and stories that line a drawer, a cupboard and a shelf of a bookcase.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/discover-challenges/witness/

On The Way Across the Moors

On the way from one North Yorkshire village to another there are always a few spectators by the side of the road, or occasionally in the middle of the road.

 

I remember one heady teenage summer I used to cruise around the moors on the back of my boyfriend’s Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. The evenings were long and balmy and we often met friends for a drink in one pub or another. We were heading over the top of the moors to Rosedale Abbey and enjoying the sweeping turns of the open road, the feeling on the wind in our faces and the thrill of motorcycling, when a sheep ran straight in front of us. I remember my knee striking the sheep, then we were bouncing through heather before coming to a sliding stop. The peaty ground and heather afforded a more forgiving landing than tarmac. A few bruises ; we were lucky. The sheep trotted off into the setting sun. After straightening the front forks we were able to continue on our way too, a little slower and a little wiser.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/on-the-way/