Pamela Gough

@pamelagough.bsky.social

281 Followers 318 Following

Writer, poet, granny

Umbra I walk through woods where trees unfold sweet shade, arching above me, scratching out the sky; and trees' reflections in a soft cascade are sisters of shadows to the mind's eye. 'Asleep where shadows do not fall,' engraved on stones that mark the places where shades lie. I stand in shadow looking to the light; my fears dispelled, the future beckons bright.
Boxing Day Tis the day after Christmas, and all through the house not a creature is moving, not even a mouse. Of turkey and stuffing they'd all had their fill to celebrate the season of peace and goodwill. With carrots and roasties and parsnips and sprouts, cute pigs in blankets – a proper blowout! The carpet is strewn with soon-broken toys - Santa hadn't reckoned with these warring boys. Dad’s got a headache from all that red wine then brandy and Baileys and spirits combined. Mum's feeling rotten: ‘I think I might die; I should never have eaten that final mince pie.’ Granddad is burping – he's taken a pill after too many nuts: hazel, almond, brazil. And so they agree, in tones most sincere, no more greed and gluttony, at least till next year
Can Anybody See Me? Now I am old I shall wear bright yellow – hi-vis, so I stand out, easy to see as I wait in the busy checkout queue with my basket of ready meals for one. I clutch my shopping and walk where the young rush, laughing and texting in a language my decades can no longer recognise. My body flinches from their three abreast. In far off youthfulness, I was noticed; builders would whistle as my heels clicked by. Now, a ‘careful, love’ is the only heed as I negotiate their hi-vis site. Each new wrinkle that appears on my face conceals yet more of my genuine self. Behind it, my mind isn't wrinkled yet – I know my marbles are all still in place. So I refuse to keep to the shadows and I will not let age disappear me. I'm determined to go all gun's blazing, wearing my sunflower hi-vis with pride.
With Apologies I wandered lonely as a cloud: that’s wrong A better scholar than Wordsworth said: Clouds come not singly, but in battalions All the better to wet you with, my dear. And is there honey still for tea? Or are some sipping punch? From a bowl for wise men three Who are never never sick at sea. If the moon’s a balloon, then were Do 265 sorts of cheese come from? Such variety, the very spice of life A dome of many-coloured glass. Dulce et decorum est… But what can your country do for you? Ask not, and hear no lie Of brandy, baccy, sealing-wax and kings.
I will build a wall To keep them all out, And when they come to call, ‘Go away,’ I will shout. My wall will be big, My wall will be wide, It’s cheating if they Then come round the side. There was a Roman emperor, Hadrian by name, His wall had soldiers on the top, It brought him lasting fame. And when my wall is finished, Then off it I shall jump, The people will all cheer At the almighty thump.
By Deputy by Arthur St. John Adcock (1864-1930). First published in Punch on April 9, 1902, page 257. As Shakespeare couldn’t write his plays (If Mrs. Gallup’s not mistaken), I think how wise in many ways He was to have them done by Bacon; They might have moldered on the shelf, Mere minor dramas (and he knew it!), If he had written them himself Instead of letting Bacon do it. And if it’s true, as Brown and Smith In many learned tomes have stated, That Homer was an idle myth, He ought to be congratulated, Since thus, evading birth, he rose For men to worship at a distance; He might have penned inferior prose Had he achieved a real existence. To him and Shakespeare men agree In making very nice allusions; But no one thinks of praising me, For I compose my own effusions; As others wrote their works divine And they immortal thus today are, Perhaps had someone written mine I might have been as great as they are.
Humility It is a threadbare coat that scratches against the skin; You put it to your nose and smell soil after rain. It tastes of porridge made with salt and water; You spot it hiding in the corner away from the limelight. It is a mouse scratching behind the skirting board, waiting for you to leave so it can show its courage.
Why You Should Always Listen to Your Mother This is the story of Geordie Slacks whose mother told him – don’t step on the cracks; don’t walk under ladders, don’t come running to me; and never go onto the railway tracks. Geordie was headstrong, Geordie was wild, in so many respects an unruly child. He got stuck in railings, he fell out of trees: ‘Don’t worry mum – my injuries are mild.’ His mother was worried, for one day she knew that Geordie’s comeuppance was long overdue. Came a knock at the door - they carried him flat; he’d finally met the ten-fifty from Crewe.
Raindrops Down, down we fall, from our mother cloud Till together we splash, a puddle of our brothers Some will remain, make the morning dew I spin fast away, squeezed into a drain Hurtling, we arrive in a flooded stream We churn and scour, mingle with brown soil Now we are a river, we pass fish and men Make the boats toss and rock, pulling on the line Out into the ocean, we become salt tears Sun above will warm us, calling us back home.
Resolutions I could give up eating chocolate, but where’s the fun in that? Go to the gym and exercise to stop me getting fat. I could become a vegan, eat beans and cause a stink. And always meet my deadlines - that’s harder than you think. Perhaps I’ll choose none of these, not fret nor stress nor strive; just relax, be thankful that I’m still alive.
Aftermath A heap of torn wrapping paper under the stairs. A pile of leftover vegetables stuffing the fridge. A stack of new books waiting to be read. A row of unreciprocated cards gathering mantelpiece dust. A sad, drooping Christmas tree - needles on the floor. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ ‘It was lovely, thank you.’
Why There Are No Unicorns The animals came in two by two: There was Leon, the lion and his mate, Leonie, too. Gerald, the giraffe, the tallest Noah had seen, Walked up the gangplank with his wife, Geraldine. Hissing Sid, the snake, the lowest of the low, Slithered on the boat with Sidonie in tow. The musk ox Michaela, she was a fearsome beast With her husband Michael, ready for the feast. The hippo was Henrietta, she was covered in mud With Henry, her boy friend, escaping from the flood. The penguin was called Peter, he waddled, as they do; Petra waddled after him – long time since they flew! Charlie, the cheetah, got there really fast; His girlfriend, Charlotte, resolved not to be last. The next on was Roberta, she’s a fluffy rabbit; Robert came after her, wanting to cohabit. David, the dog, was carrying a stick; His wife Davina gave Noah a big wet lick. Carl the cat looked round him in disdain; Carla, his wife, thought, ‘I’ll make this my domain.’ Noah looked about him and thought, ‘That’ll do, We can’t take the unicorns, no names begin with U.'
Going I saw a butterfly today, the first I've seen this year. Is it the rain, or pesticides that keeps these beauties away? My cabbages grow strong and whole; no nibbling caterpillars there. Where have all their parents gone? What killer has taken toll? Going Blackbirds are dying, a virus kills them from mosquito bites. This year, in my garden, blueberries ripen unmolested. I'd rather have to share Gone Lavender bloomed along my drive - a magnet for busy bees collecting nectar for the hive. Now, lonely lavender sees no bees; their humming silenced, mute. It blooms, unvisited, none to please. What has he done, the human brute, to all earth's riches, himself to suit?