WRITING INSPIRED BY LANDSCAPE

By (Anonymous, for Ferrante Imperato) - http://www.ausgepackt.uni-erlangen.de/presse/download/index.shtml, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9172105 In my study there are many favourite items. Books I have treasured since childhood stand cover to cover with brand new editions, some I have still yet to read, for if I have to acknowledge just one vice, (and I have several) I am a self-confessed book junkie. The mere glimpse of a title leads my mind down all sorts of imaginary pathways, new ideas, new journeys, greater understanding of a subject or merely escapist tales of fantasy. The anticipatory thought of opening a new book and inhaling the smell of fresh print, and the touch of pristine pages, as yet unturned, adds a whole new sensory and tactile dimension to the book reading exercise that online text can never convey. Second-hand books also have their own unique persona. Perhaps stored in slightly damp surroundings at the rear of an old book shop racke...

  I was walking Akerman Street, the Mow Fen of Litelport fame, sited in the Domesday Book, deep in thought about how the ground beneath my feet belongs to no-one. That the infinite pleasure of seeing into the forever is to me, a gift. In those moments my world became a fine place to be. I know much of this landscape but have never written how I feel when I’m alone under the artist’s sky, in the poet’s dreamscape. Easterly blasts of wind took my breath away and deafened my thoughts so that I could no longer hear myself breathe, feel only fear building up in my limbs so that they were heavy and lifeless; the gale thrust me backwards dragging me off my feet as though claiming it for the soil. I am small, insignificant, a strange visitor to this place. But I could not, would not turn back. I quicken my pace to the hypnotic rhythm of leather on gravel. My shadow ahead, the one I would never ensnare alerted me to longer shadows catching up behind. I had heard about the black dog of t...

  One of my favourite possessions is a basic utilitarian object: a sixty year-old glazed stoneware rubber tapping cup. When Dad gave it to me a few years ago, I was delighted. Others might see it best used as drainage in plant pots. But to me it is a remarkable object: aesthetically pleasing, a reminder of my childhood, and an object that speaks resoundingly of colonial power and the rise and fall of a lucrative industry that changed an entire country. So much significance for such a modest object!   Dad acquired the cup in Singapore where he was posted by the RAF from 1959 to 1962 to develop aerial reconnaissance photographs towards the end of the Communist insurgency of 1948 to 1961. This was the happiest time in my parents’ marriage. A third daughter and a son were added to our existing family of four, and we enjoyed all that RAF life offered. As often as he could, Dad would take us into the countryside to see wildlife and the local people going about their lives. Fam...

  This Christmas morning In the darkness I lit a candle And as I watched, The flame rise, take hold And dance, I felt hope Climb higher in my heart.   A single light, It seemed so small And yet, Penetrating the gloom It beamed, With purpose Transforming all around, And pierced my soul.   With half-closed eyes Laser streaks of light Reached out in all directions, dog barking in edging night, lone birdsong searching for the dawn, as Creation greets the light spreading a contagion of hope.   Paul Middleton      Image by David Monje    

    I stare down at the packet in my hands, turning it over and over. 'I'm not sure I want to eat purple carrots' I say to the man on the other end of the phone. 'Sorry love it's all we have left. Your list said carrots, so we sent you what we had. It's Lockdown, and everyone has become an amateur market gardener' he replies with a laugh in his voice. 'But do they taste purple?' He sighs. 'How does purple taste?' 'Like blueberries or blackberries. Berrylike.' 'No, they taste like carrots, delicious carrots. They're a heritage variety.' 'What about the red ones?' 'Carrots. They taste like carrots.' 'And the yellow ones.' 'Look love they're carrots. They all taste like carrots. If you don't want them, you can bring them back.' 'I can't; I'm self-isolating.' I can hear him moving around as he is talking to me. 'Well, you can bring them b...

  On this day 58 years ago the hardest winter in living memory set in and continued until March. Icy blizzards created a complete white out and temperatures barely, if ever, rose above freezing. In those days, blizzards failed to close schools, whereas now the merest flurry of snow grinds the nation to a halt.   To me, it seemed that life carried on as usual, despite artic conditions and deep snow drifts. My dad and mum still went to work at their hairdressing salon in Chesterton, passing other vehicles abandoned for weeks by the side of the road, conked out through engine failures, or stuck in drifts. There was however, one near miss tragedy when my sister and I were traveling with mum and dad along the frozen A10 approaching Milton, and I heard dad say, “Look at that idiot trying to overtake in these conditions.”   Then mum cried out, “He’s going to hit us.” I became aware of a dark transit van skidding broadside from the opposite carriageway across the centre of ...

  My most beloved bird, winter in your wings. Storm-driven feathers, ice-gleaming eyes. There is no summer softness in your plumage, Just the barred echo of your nest site pylon.   Scything through clouds discoloured with rain,  Black, slate-blue, the darkness flies. Your beauty calls me with wails on the wind, Ascending high, circling, dissolving in haze.    Nothing temperate in your searing flight, You, a hooded outlaw blazing with intent. Brutal bone-chilling frost in your glacial stare, Wings crisply held, scalpels slicing the air.   Your prey scatter like chaff you have winnowed, A blizzard of panic under your gaze. Slashing rain in your stoop, lance legs extended, Their last sight on earth is your glittering glare. Barbara Grafton  Image copyright Barbara Grafton