Hinterland

The man found a seat in the bus and slumped down. Pretending to be busily arranging his belongings, he stole a sly glance at the people boarding the bus. Nothing to worry about so far. An elderly couple, a girl, probably in her twenties, and a middle-aged woman walked down the narrow isle and found their seats, settling in quickly. The man duly noted that they all sat in front of him. It might be prudent, he thought, to change his seat and sit at the back of the bus. That way he would be able to watch everyone. As he had no idea how many times the bus would stop to pick up passengers, this seemed like a sensible idea. He picked up his belongings and changed seats, picking a seat a couple of rows from the back. Settling down for a second time, he looked out of the window, scanning the scene outside for anything or anybody suspicious. Everything seemed innocent enough. He sighed. It would be difficult to relax, but at least it looked as if he was safe. The bus driver climbed into his seat and started the engine, but then paused, looking in his mirrors as if waiting for someone. Inwardly panicking the man at the back of the bus searched the street outside, turning to look out of both left and right windows. Then he turned to check the view through the back window. Whilst looking behind him, the bus doors closed and the bus began to move. The man turned quickly to check the inside of the bus. It didn’t look as though anybody got on while his attention was diverted, but just to be sure he checked the numbers. No extras. 
Ten minutes later the bus was cruising at a frustratingly slow speed. It’s going to be a long journey, the man reflects, and wriggles into a more comfortable position. He looks at his hands, spreading them out before him and notes that they have stopped shaking, at least perceptively. He still feels shaky inside, but he’s beginning to feel more relaxed. He sighs again, more heavily this time. The last two weeks have been …interesting! That’s the only way he could describe them. Well maybe not. He’d found them pretty frightening too, if he was honest.  First there was the culture shock. Russia is very different to England. In fact, he suspected that Siberia was very different to Western Russia. Then there was the job he had been dispatched to do. That had been interesting too, and he’d enjoyed meeting colleagues with similar work aspirations. The most ‘interesting’ thing about his visit, however, had been the surreptitious stalking. At least, that’s how he had come to think of it. It wasn’t what you would expect when you visited a country on legitimate business. So yes, the break had turned out to be interesting, but he could have done without the Russian interest in him, 

He looked out of the window. The landscape was flat and lifeless, although in the distance he could see shadows of the mountains in the Kolyma region. These were the mountains from which gold and uranium had been mined in the second world war, using slave labour. Stalin had instructed that the mountains be mined by the inmates of the Gulags – the Soviet labour camps. Upwards of three million people had simply disappeared from their homes, accused of fabricated crimes. Writers and artists, teachers and politicians, anyone who had been foolish enough to state an opinion disagreeing with the official state policy was taken and put to hard labour in one of these camps, and the Kolyma Gulag had the worst reputation. If you went to Kolyma, you went to die. The man shuddered. Even now, having studied this for many years back in the safety of his home, and forty odd years since the camps had closed, he still felt the enormity of the horror. Madagan was built on permafrost. In fact the whole region was just about frozen solid, and yet men, dying of hunger and freezing cold temperatures had gutted the mountains with little more than their hands and the meanest of tools. It brought a whole new meaning to glib phrase…’you’ll be sent to Siberia’.

He had been working hard at the research centre In Magadan, helping to prepare and set up a breeding programme for the itinerant stocks of salmon which came back every year to the River Kolyma to breed. He enjoyed the work, but like everyone else, he had different interests in his time off. Having been interested in the Gulags for many years, and in particular the Kolyma Camps, he had jumped at the invitation to help with the research at Magadan. On his days off he had executed a focused and organised exploration of the region, taking in the camp at Kolyma, and the mountains surrounding it. He already knew much of the historical fact, having been researching for his book for several years, but seeing it all for the first time was something else. ‘We don’t know how lucky we are’ were his thoughts at the time, a theme he could not deny returning to over and over again. It was just luck, wasn’t it, that placed you wherever you were born on the globe? 

The bus slowed down. This was the airport, some 56km from Magadan. He recognised it as he had flown in two weeks ago. He wished he had booked a flight out again. This was torture, waiting, watching, and travelling so slowly.
‘You’ve read too much, fact and fiction, my boy, and it’s got to you. Your imagination is running riot!’ he tried to convince himself. Maybe, maybe not. It sure as hell felt real when he was retreating down that hill outside Magadan, followed by two figures dressed completely in black.
The bus stopped at the airport and two of the passengers, the elderly couple, disembarked. He felt the bus shudder as the driver opened the luggage compartment in the side, digging out the luggage belonging to the two who had left. The man waited, watching, hardly breathing. Nobody else boarded the bus, and the driver was obviously not going to hang around, as he jumped back into bus, closing the doors immediately and moving off, retracing his route back out of the airport compound.

Well that was a relief. Even if it was just his imagination being overly active, he still felt nervous and alert to anything unusual. He sank back into his seat and watched as the dreary landscape gradually changed to forest tundra, and noted that the sky was still bright with sunshine belying the fact that it was two degrees below freezing…and this was the Siberian summer! The bus had become distinctly colder while the doors had been open, and he huddled himself up in his coat, wishing he’s had the sense to buy a warmer one before he came out to this place.

What a place! He liked it. The people were very friendly, despite the language barrier, and you had to respect the fact that although so many of them had horrendous experiences, or family who had been affected by the history of the city, they had just got on with their lives. The city itself had become more modern and boasted lots of colleges, a couple of universities, leisure amenities and a less restrictive lifestyle. He remembered it had been a closed city after the war, until quite recently, he thought, though he couldn’t put a date to it. ‘Gave them time to clear away some of the evidence’, he guessed. This cynical thought led him to remember his visit to the Mask of Sorrows, a monument erected to commemorate the lives of those who perished in the camps. The edifice was on a hill overlooking the city, and after he had examined it in some detail, and admired (if that was the right word) the life-size statue of the weeping woman, next to it it, he’d taken some photographs. He shot pictures of the Mask and then turned to look at the view. Quite  impressive. He took some more photographs, this time of the city below, and was standing enjoying the panorama when he became aware that he was not alone.
He turned sharply, just in time to see two men slide back behind the monument. A very neatly executed slide,but nonetheless, suspicious. It wasn’t the first time he’s seen them. They had appeared three times in the previous week, in a shop, on the way to work, and once as he waited for a lift from a colleague. Now, here they were again! Casually he walked away from the monument and started to descend the hill, still looking at the city below, glistening in the afternoon sun, and occasionally putting his camera to his to his face as if taking a picture. He was anxious, but not anxious enough to make the mistake of turning round too soon. When he did turn round, it was with his camera lens to his eye, and although he saw the two move swiftly,  and motion to each other as if pointing out a landmark, he still had the feeling that something was wrong. Apart from anything else, what the devil were they dressed in long black trench style coats for? Very formal for a hilly walk, he thought.

The man was woken from his reverie by a movement at the front of the coach. The girl had risen from her seat and was approaching him. She was tall, with long dark hair tied in a ponytail, half hidden under a green beret. She wore a long maroon coat, and knee length black boots…and a smile. A smile which brought more waves of panic as the man watched her descending on him. God, she was tall! Hell, why hadn’t he realised that nowadays, spies and government hit-men could be government hit-women! The thought had never crossed his mind. Idiot!
Suddenly, just as he thought he was in trouble, the girl stopped, wriggled one leg, and then the other, stretched her arms above her head, smiled at him and said something in Russian. Then she turned round, walked back to her seat, stretched again and sat down. The man, now shaking quite visibly, had anybody been near enough to notice, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. He could do without incidents like that, even if it was harmless. Although, come to think of it, he hadn’t a clue what the girl had said. She could have been giving him a warning, carefully concealed behind the smile. He would never know until it was too late. No, the girl was just another innocent passenger. Nothing remotely suspicious. Calm down damn it! He shifted position on the less than generous seat and gazed vacantly out of the window.

What a life! Here he was at fifty-three and nothing had changed much since he was three. He was still on his own. He was still misunderstood. He was still frightened. Wasn’t age supposed to endower you with wisdom and serenity, brought about by experience? Wasn’t he supposed to find peace and inward tranquillity in his later years, brought about by the self-confidence that he could cope with anything life chose to throw at him? Fat chance! He was so important, his parents had abandoned him. His foster parents were kind, but didn’t understand him, and never felt close enough to adopt him. School was a struggle, not academically, as he was exceptionally bright, but that same gift left him vulnerable to either exploitation, or ridicule. Ridicule he could cope with, but when it had progressed to bullying, he had drawn the short straw. No friends, no protection. Just humiliation. He was used to that during his childhood. As he matured, he learned how to counteract it. How to avoid circumstances that would lead to trouble. How to side step awkward situations, and sometimes how to extricate himself from unforeseen mistakes. But it was something he still fought with, this battle with low self-esteem and loneliness.

Loneliness. Oh yes! He was lonely. There had been no close family as he grew up, and then, when he thought that he could change that by marrying and having his own family…well that little dream did not materialise either. He wasn’t sure why. He’d had plenty of girlfriends, but none of them he could say he had loved, or been in love with, nor they with him. There was always a barrier. What kind of barrier he couldn’t say, but he couldn’t get through it, and seemingly, others couldn’t reach him either. The result of this being that he was always on the edge of everything. On the margins. In his own Netherland.
Always on the margins.

The bus hit a pot hole and jolted badly, briefly waking the man from his thoughts. The mountains looked closer, dark and menacing and the there was no sign of animal or human life to be seen. He assumed that since there were so many trees, there must be creatures out there, but they were keeping their presence a secret. ‘The sticks’, he thought. ‘Right out in the sticks’.

He changed position again, and wondered if he should perhaps stand up and stretch and move around, like the girl had. No. He’d be ok. He had two seats to spread himself over. Maybe he could sleep for a while. He lifted his legs onto the adjacent seat, arranging them diagonally, where they stayed balanced precariously, in danger of falling off at the next jolt. He watched the   passing scenery for a few minutes and then closed his eyes. He was tired, but sleep evaded him. His mind was still too active and his nerves still too alert. He tried thinking about his work, and how he would continue to be available as a consultant to the colleagues had just left behind. He’d enjoyed working with them. He thought they had enjoyed working with him, and yet, it was the same old story. He had only seen them socially a few times during the entire visit, and that was for a coffee, twice and a meal once with his manager. Other than that he had been left on the margins again; lost in the hinterland that surrounded him, psychologically, emotionally and physically. He sighed deeply. What is life about? Whatever it’s about, he’d been left out…again.

Several hours later, the bus trundled into Chita where the man would exchange the bus for a train. It was becoming darker outside, and colder. There was about an hour to wait for the Moscow train, with the prospect of a very long journey after that…the best part of four days! He dug into his pocket to pull out some literature about the Trans-Siberian Railway. 6166km to Moscow. ‘A slightly longer trip than John O’ Groats to Landsend’ he chuckled! He might see some different scenery tomorrow, but over night, he wasn’t going to see very much at all.

When the train drew into the station, he boarded and found an empty carriage where he stacked his luggage and prepared to eat a snack. Later he would eat a proper meal in the dining carriage, but for now, he’d be quite happy with the sandwiches he’d packed. Having eaten and drunk some of the bottled juice he had bought on the station, he settled down for a doze, falling asleep almost immediately.

He didn’t hear the carriage door slide open, or the footsteps entering softly, and swiftly. He was unaware of the click of the gun as it was cocked ready for use. He was unaware of the precision, so neat, as he slipped into oblivion.

He was unaware that he had reached his final hinterland.
 

Body Talk

Entering the props room, Ben switched on the light.
‘Wow, this place is awesome’, said his colleague Bill.
‘Haven’t you been down here before?’
‘Nope. What are we fetching?’
‘These!’ Ben pointed to a trolley piled high with naked mannequin parts, arms, legs heads, bottoms and hands.
‘Spoooookeeey!’, breathed Bill.
Ben picked up a head. ‘I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on!’ he said in a squeaky voice. From the other end of the trolley Bill was inspecting a torso.
‘Erm…I think I had too much last night. I’m feeling legless’, he quipped, holding up the body part.
Grasping a female torso, Ben grinned, ‘I’d give an arm and a leg for one of these!’
Ben picked up a foot and attached it by the fitted screw to one of the unattached legs.
‘Let’s leg it outta here’, he drawled, but Bill was right behind him, giggling helplessly, ‘I was gonna say, let’s foot it out of here!’, he said holding up a single foot.
Ben returned to the trolley and hunted around. Finally finding what he was searching for, he held up a female pair of legs and pelvis, snorting through his giggles,
‘It appears we are missing a member!’

By now the two of them were almost crying with laughter, competing with each other for the best joke.
Back in the office upstairs, the assistant props manager watched the screen from the security camera and grinned.
‘Bill and Ben the Flower Pot Men’, he mused. ‘They aren’t going to live this down. Watch this’. He pulled a microphone close to his mouth, and coughed, just audibly.

Bill turned to Ben.
‘Is there anyone else down here? I thought I just heard someone cough’.
‘Shouldn’t be. I had to unlock the door to get in’, Ben said.
There was another cough and the sound of someone clearing their throat.
Both boys stood stock still, staring at each other.
‘I said it was spooky’ Bill said.
Suddenly there was a rustle somewhere behind the trolley. Bill and Ben jumped violently.
The assistant props manager chuckled to himself, turned off the mic and looked at his companions. ‘They’re spooked easily! Pity they haven’t got flowerpots to jump into!’ Right, here we go…the piece de resistance…’
As Bill and Ben stared at each other, and then the trolley, and then back at each other, the silence seemed very loud. Then out of the depths, there was a whirring sound, followed by a rustling. Suddenly one of the dummies moved and then fell over into the trolley. As it clattered, disturbing other mannequins in it’s path, a deep, throaty voice said…
‘Need a hand boys?’

As if hit by lightening, both boys bolted. Out of the door, they sprinted up the stairs to the safety of the corridor. Their progress was followed by the trio in the office, who were falling about laughing. They watched on another camera situated at the end of the corridor.
‘How did you get the rustling movement’, one of them asked the perpetrator?
‘I have a remote robot teddy bear near the trolley which I knew would make a noise if it rubbed against the sides of that cupboard, so all I had to do was activate it and then use the mic. The mannequin falling over was a bonus!’
Outside in the corridor, two very pale men lit cigarettes and then stared at the props room door as if waiting for whatever it was to come and get them. Although they wouldn’t admit it, neither of them felt brave enough to be the first to return to the room to fetch the mannequins.
As they stood, fidgeting and drawing deep drags on their cigarettes they heard another sound issue from the props room. Then a voice very clear and very loud, said;
‘Hey, give us a hand. I haven’t a leg to stand on. Oh…what’s a body to do! My poor head is reeling and my arms gone limp!’

That was the last anybody saw of Bill and Ben, but the tape was a favourite at theatrical parties!

Aardvarks and Bananas

My friend has an aardvark called Long Nose Jim.
The decision to keep him was purely a whim.
My friend knew nothing of  the life of an aardvark,
He simply thought having one would be a good lark!

He put Jim in the garden, and left him to graze,
But he never saw Jim eat for several long days.
So he offered him carrots, biscuits and bread,
But Jim just ignored them, and went to his bed.

‘What is wrong with my aardvark?’, my friend was perplexed.
‘He won’t eat his food, and I’m feeling quite vexed’.
My friend scratched his head, then grinned ear to ear.
Jim’s diet needed changing, that much was clear!

‘Perhaps he’d like vegetables or lots of ripe fruit.
I’m sure the town market will have plenty to suit’.
My friend returned shortly, with basket in hand
filled with fruit of all kinds, the best in the land.

Jim looked at the fruit and wrinkled his nose.
My friend looked at me,’ he’ll surely eat those’?
He unpeeled some bananas and gave them to Jim
Who snorted, perhaps thinking his owner was dim!

Jim started scratching the earth roundabout.
My friend , with dismay, jumped up with a shout
Jim don’t do that, you’ll dig holes in the earth
But Jim was digging for all he was worth!

‘Here…have some bananas. You know they are good
Try eating these, they’re delicious…you should!’
But Long nose Jim was too busy to care,
He dug and he dug, and then sniffed the air.

Next week I returned and found Jim looking thin.
He stared at me forlornly, no aardvark grin.
I went home with heavy heart, and began to surf
The web; of aardvark information, there was a dearth.

Then suddenly I felt my spirits soar
Pictures of aardvarks, habitat and more,
Were filling my screen, with  information packed;
Termites, yes, termites, were what Jim lacked!

I raced to my friend and showed him the site.
My goodness he said. I believe you are right.
But termites are scarce in rainy Blackpool.
Oh I have been selfish and such a fool.

I should have researched before I bought Jim.
Made sure that everything was ready for him.
Really he belongs on an African plain,
The suburbs of Blackpool is not his terrain.

So what shall we do, he’s so hungry, poor Jim.
My friends eyes with tears were stating to brim.
Lets ask the zoo. They’ll have termites I’m sure.
Poor Jim won’t starve and be thin any more.

So Jim went to the zoo, where he lives to this day
In aardvark splendour, with a cabin and hay,
And hills filled with termites, specially for him.
Just what he deserves, our Long Nose Jim.

He didn’t want bananas. They would make him ill.
He didn’t want bread, or a stir fry or grill.
Jim is an aardvark, who eats termites for tea,
And he forages at night when no one can see.

His nose is very  long, so  he can reach into hills,
to extract all the termites, which he then kills.
He doesn’t eat yogurts, or toast and marmite.
All he wants is a hill, and a taste  of  termite.

So the lesson to remember, is easily learned.
Information is important and should not be spurned
In order to suit people, fulfil their little whims,
Information is there to help all Long Nose Jims!

©DF 2007

 

 

 

 

The Bee and the Fairy

 

Fairy with Bumble Bee and flowers – Florence Edith Storer.

For Georgia, with love.

Come help me find nectar said the busy buzzy bee
I am going to collect pollen to make some honey
Lets go to the meadow and look for some clover
Hop on my back and I’ll carry you over.

The fairy climbed onto the buzzy bee’s back
which was soft and striped in yellow and black.
When they reached the meadow, the fairy climbed down.
And clung on to a plantain which looked rusty and brown.

He watched the small bee as he busily collected
the pollen from clovers he’d carefully selected.
Then, catching the scent of a clover nearby
the fairy climbed up one and met with a fly.

The fly was too busy to stay for a chat
So the fairy sat down on his perfumed mat.
He watched his friend hurridly filling his sack
with pollen, and then it was time to go back.

The bee and the fairy flew back to the hive.
The queen bee was there and she saw them arrive.
‘I hope you’ve been good, and kept out of trouble.
Thats good! Now it’s time for your teas…on the double’!

And guess what the fairy had for his tea?
Home made honey of course, made by the bee.
It tasted so sweet, and it smelled of the clover,
He ate so much that he thought he’d fall over.

All through the summer the fairy and bee,
took pollen from meadow flowers, and some by the sea.
When summer was over, they said their good byes
and the bee gave the fairy some honey supplies.

The fairy took the honey straight to the dell,
to give to the fairies so that they would keep well.
For winter is cold, if you live in the wood,
So lots of sweet honey is yummy and good!

©DF2007

The Goblins of Chestnut Wood.

Deep in the woods near Chestnut Farm  
Lived three little Goblins, full of charm,
Each had made Chestnut Wood his home
the perfect place for a mischevious gnome!

Their homes were shaped like a plump mushroom,
Out of each chimney rose a smokey plume,
because whatever the season, chilly or hot,
the goblins had a fire burning, more often than not.

Their houses were beautifully painted, so bright
that they shone and dazzled in the morning light,
And each had a bell , and a broom for the floor,
and pretty flowers arranged in pots round the door.

Each goblin was small with a turned up nose,
They had twinkling eyes and funny little toes.
Their clothes were bright and they could always be seen
in their favourite colours, red, yellow and green

They wore shirts and shorts and a tunic and belt,
And a little peaked hat which was made out of felt.
Their hats had a feather, once worn by a bird.
Pheasant or partridge they usually preferred.

The goblins wore boots which were made out of leather,
Waterproof and comfy to keep out wet weather.
And sometimes a cape with a detachable hood,
And sometimes gloves if the weather wasn’t good.

The Goblins were kind to the woodland beasts,
inviting them in to their midnight feasts,
But sometimes the goblins were naughty and bad,
Playing tricks on people and making them mad.

No one was sure what the goblins would do,
But sometimes they left folk some sort of clue
Like the time they stole eggs from Blackberry Farm,
On the straw in the henhouse they left a small charm.

Once they had painted a pig with green blotches.
Another night changed the time on folks’ watches.
They took milk from the door steps and washing off lines
and changed the direction of country road signs.

Folk said that they painted the Bluebells in spring,
And created a recipe for the buzzy bee’s sting.
They helped dig the burrows for rabbits and moles,
And helped shrews and mice find safe little holes.

In summer they played with the gentle warm breeze
that fluttered the grass and the leaves in the trees.
They played hide and seek, teasing the fish in the stream,
And on summer nights played with a friendly moonbeam.

In autumn they helped stock each squirrel’s small drey
with nuts, which in winter would keep hunger away.
They turned all the leaves red and yellow and brown.
then spun them as they floated and quietly dropped down.

They collected wild flowers and bundles of hay
to soften and perfume their beds as they lay,
and also to make sure their friends were supplied
with warm bedding when it became colder outside.

In the winter they turned  the skies miserable grey
and somehow they managed to shorten the day.
On cold mornings they helped the icy Jack Frost
with his fingers the landscape, he cleverly glossed.

At Christmas the goblins went out in the woods.
Wearing capes and gloves they pulled up their hoods
They visited their friends, every dwelling and house,
The fox, the rabbit, the owl and the mouse.

They gave little gifts they had made by themselves,
A skill they had learned from their neighbours, the Elves.
And when they were done and feeling quite jolly
they painted red berries on all of the holly.

At the start of the new year the Goblins were tired.
They stayed in their beds,  a long rest was required.
They needed to sleep because Spring would come soon
Along with the Cuckoo, and the Nightingale’s tune.

So the tired little Goblins got plenty of sleep,
Carefully the animals would softly creep,
making no noise till the first day of spring,
when suddenly all woodland birds started to sing.

The Goblins would wake and get quickly to work.
Their springtime jobs they would never ever shirk.
They were helpful and good, but misunderstood
by the folk who lived out beyond Chestnut Wood
©DF2007

The Witch, the Cat and the Flea.

 

There was an old lady, who lived by the sea,
in a cave with a cat and an irritable flea.
At night in the moonlight, the old lady would fly
on her broomstick, far up in the twinkling sky.

With her cat at her side, and the flea somewhere near,
The three of them flew, with no worries or fear.
Up to the moon, swooping round and around;
then diving back down to the dark sandy ground.

The old lady did cackle and the cat yowled with glee,
as they glided abreast of the waves on the sea.
And sailors and fishermen crossed themselves fast
as the shadow of the witch on their ship’s side was cast.

Watching the antics of witch, cat and flea,
The moon sighed heavily and waited to see
what the witch would do next with the excitable broom
which was whizzing around going ‘zoom, zoom zoom’!

After a while, the old lady grew tired,
and decided that dinner was what they required.
So they swooped down to the waves and the white spotted surf,
and landed the broomstick back safely on earth.

The old lady, the cat and the irritable flea,
Couldn’t decide what they wanted for tea. 
So the witch used her cauldron with the help of a spell.
The meal in the pot had a wonderful smell.

I’ve no idea what they ate after flying so far,
But the moon looked across and spoke to a star.
‘That’s it for tonight; we’ll get peace once again,
The witch and her friends will retire to their den’.

If you watch very carefully, when the full moon is bright,
You might be rewarded with a very special sight.
For it’s said when she rides with her cat and the flea,
Only believers are privileged to see.

©Copyright DF 2007
 

  
  
 

The Fairy Dell

 

In the evening light of the fading day,
young baby rabbits frolic and play.
Scampering about in the fields and lanes,
not noticing the noise of the distant trains.

At dusk they come out of their burrows to feed.
The meadows provide everything that they need.
As dusk turns to night, they tussle and fight,
 silhouettes clear in the moon’s silver light.
 
 It was on one such night, that this tale begins.
 It’s the story of an adventure that happened to twins
  who strayed from under their mother’s tired eyes,
  with the help of the cover from the darkening skies.
 
  Fluffy and Flo reached the edge of the wood,
  for the dangers of roaming they’d not understood.
  They looked up in awe at an oak tree so tall,
  and both of them realised, they must be quite small!
 
  The wood looked enticing, exciting and wild.
  The two little rabbits were easily beguiled
  into thinking the wood was a safe place to be;
  Plenty of nibbles and new things to see.
 
  They scurried by the oak tree and into the wood,
  under the ferns which arched in a hood;
  over stones covered in moss, which was trying to grow
  everywhere underfoot, a soft green plateau.

They paused for a while to nibble some shoots,
   and Flo accidentally bumped into some newts.
   Just then, somewhere near, came the sound of a bell.
   From where the little rabbits were unable to tell.
  
   They turned round to look, and were met with a bright
   shimmering, quivering sphere of white light.
   When they looked a little closer the light disappeared.
   They could see a small figure now the whiteness had cleared
  
   Fluffy and Flo were baffled and scared.
   Being young rabbits, they weren’t well prepared
   for surprises like this, so they started to run.
   This wasn’t their idea of how to have fun.
  
   A flash of bright light! They could no longer move.
   ‘Stop running little rabbits, the spell I’ll remove’
   The voice had a gentleness, soft and so sweet
   that the twins felt they no longer had need to retreat.
   
     The air became little stars of twinkling light,
    Flooding the wood’s darkness, and filling the night
    With tinkling and jingling that seemed almost to float
    in the air ‘til the demise of each quivering note.
   
      They were able to move again and turned round to look.
    The figure stepped forward and reached out and took
   one each of Fluffy and Flo’s front paws,
   with a touch soft as gossamer, silk or thin gauze.
  
   ‘Welcome to the Fairy Dell, little rabbits. Please come
   and sit here on this log, next the pure white arum.
   My name is Bluebell, and this is Violet
   We won’t hurt you, I promise, so please do not fret’.
  
   The twins hopped up on the log next to Bluebell,
   What was she, this creature? They were unable to tell.
   Bluebell saw their confusion, and knew it was scary,
   To be a small rabbit and meet with a fairy.
  
   ‘We are the fairies who live in this wood.
   Don’t worry; our magic is used only for good.
   Not every creature can see us you know.
   We will protect you wherever you go’.
  
   Just then, from a tree that was laden with fruit,
   they heard the unmistakable sound of a hoot.
   ‘Oh no’, cried poor Fluffy, for he was aware,
   an owl must be nearby and they must take care.
  
   Violet reached out, touching each twin on their nose,
   She knew that the owls were formidable foes,
   so she turned the two rabbits into handsome toadstools
   and said, ‘don’t dare move, for owls are not fools’.
  
   The rabbits remained still, too frightened to move,
   hoping their stillness would help to remove
   the threat from the branches, hidden, but heard.
   The wise old owl; the scariest bird.
  
   Moments passed by, then they felt a slight draught
   as the owl flew away, and they heard Violet laugh.
   Flo looked at fluffy, and Fluffy at Flo,
   ‘We are rabbits again, the fairies we owe’!
  
   ‘Of course you don’t owe us, we’re here to protect
   all bunnies who are lost. Now, quiet. I detect
   the scent of a fox, quite close by I should think.
   He is probably coming to the brook for a drink’.
  
   In the time that it takes for a rabbit to blink,
   the twins became smaller and continued to shrink
   until they were the size of a red ladybird.
   Another incredible change had occurred!
  
   They crept under the log; it was a safe place to hide,
   and watched what was happening from the safety inside.
   The fairies were invisible, as the fox sauntered by,
   but if he’d listened he might have heard both fairies sigh.
  
   ‘Come little rabbits. It’s time to go home.
   This is not a safe place for young rabbits to roam.
   Now come out from the log, and we will transform you again
   You mother with worry waits in the glen.
  
   The twins crept out from under the log,
   into a mist, or some sort of fog.
   When the mist cleared, they were back in the lane.
   Familiar territory, their own domain.
  
   Quickly they scampered around on the verge,
   until they found where the lane and field merge.
   They ran full speed to find their own burrow,
   their mother’s grief filling them with guilt and sorrow.
  
  They had had an adventure, that much was true,
   but they felt their behaviour was something to rue.
   If it had not been for the fairies, their care and concern,
  the twins might have had a much worse lesson to learn.
 
  Their mother was elated and hugged them so hard.
  She knew that they might have become tea for Reynard.
  But Fluffy and Flo were dazed and confused.
  Was it really a dream? Were there fairies? They mused.
 

  Dream, or adventure, one thing is for sure;
  Fluffy and Flo don’t stray off anymore.
  They have learned that the world can be dangerous and bad.
  Increasing the risk, would surely be mad.
 
  So they stay with their mother, whenever they go out.
  Whether somewhere more distant, or round and about,
  And they think of the fairies, who helped them escape;
  Who waved magic wands that could make them change shape
 
  Every night when they go to bed, wrapped snug and tight,
  they always remember to say a ‘good night’
  to the fairies out there in the mysterious wood,
  and promise, from now on, they would always be good!
 
©Copyright DF 2007
 

  

Duck

Duck

I am a duck and I waddle back and forth
to the pond on the green and the farm in the north.
I’ve a beautiful beak, and strong webbed feet
As a fowl I’m considered to be one of the elite.

The geese are so fat, and they very rudely squawk.
Seems they don’t say much, just very noisy talk.
The turkey is conceited, and bad tempered all the time
He thinks he is the boss, head of organised crime!

The chickens are very dull, and they peck and they cluck
None of them as handsome or as bright as a duck.
The cockerel puffs up his breast to give his dawn alarm
Waking all the village folk as well as on the farm!

I’m glad that I’m a duck; seems to me that I’m in luck.
I waddle and I swim, and I can quack instead of cluck!
It is not for vanity, that my running skills I boast
I’ll make absolutely certain I won’t be the Sunday Roast.

 ©DF2007

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
  

There’s Rhinoceros Eating My Tea!

Johnny was on his way home from his school.
He’d be glad to get in even though lessons were cool.
They’d learned about animals in far away lands,
in the ocean, and desserts and leafy woodlands.

Now Johnny’s mind turned to the question of tea.
His mum’s daily menu he couldn’t guarantee,
but he hoped it would either be sausage and chips,
or perhaps something barbequed, accompanied by dips.

As he opened the gate, and walked up the front path,
he found himself wishing it was time for his bath.
He was tired, after cricket and so many lessons,
Geography, English and dull music sessions.

As he opened the back door, and stepped forward an inch,
he dropped his school bag, gave his arm a sharp pinch.
He must be dreaming, this couldn’t be right,
In front of his eyes was an incredible sight.

For there, at the table, wedged in his dad’s chair,
with his mouth full of cake and seemingly unaware
that he was dropping iced gooey bits all over the floor,
was a rhino, the size of his dad’s garage door!

Johnny couldn’t believe what he saw and he gasped;
‘Oh Mum! there’s a rhino’, and quickly he grasped
the door handle and fled to the back garden shed.
The rhino had filled him with terror and dread.

He waited and listened. No noises could be heard.
This surely, he thought, is just so absurd.
He peered round the shed door, hoping to see
his mum or his dad trying to find him for tea!

After several more minutes, he decided to move,
He’d look through the window and hope it would prove,
that there was no rhinoceros, eating his tea,
spilling orange juice and sponge cake and burping with glee.

He crept back to the house, but because he was small
He couldn’t reach up, and he wished he was tall.
Finding a flowerpot he climbed on the top,
hoping the pot would not break so he’d drop.

But he needn’t have worried because the rhino was busy.
He’d been in the fridge and had drunk something fizzy.
Johnny could see fizz coming out of his nose,
A long steady stream right down to his toes!

Johnny shook his head, desperately trying to clear
the thought that this couldn’t be happening here.
A rhinoceros doesn’t drink fizzy pop or fruit juice,
Surely that would be thought of as rhino abuse?

The kitchen was dark, and it was difficult to see,
but that didn’t matter; he could hear the TV.
Then he heard crashing, followed by a loud bang.
The table had fallen with a clattering clang.

‘Oh no’ Johnny thought, ‘our house will be wrecked.
This rhinoceros must be stopped’, and he checked
that the back door was open and he could get in,
hopefully undetected amidst all the din. The rhino was dancing, attempting the tango,
while chomping his way through a rather large mango.
He was far too preoccupied, to notice the boy
who had slipped by so quietly, his fun to destroy.Johnny raced up the stairs to his parents’ bedroom,
which smelled of fresh bedding and his mother’s perfume.
He located the telephone, next to the bed,
but the emergency number went clean out of his head.

‘Oh come on’, he thought. ‘What is the right number?’
And with that he fell into a deep restful slumber.
A short while later he heard his mum call;
‘ Come on Johnny, teas ready, and then it’s football’.

He opened his eyes and was stunned to realise,
he was on his mums bed, he could tell by the size!
How did he get here? This wasn’t his bed.
Befuddled the memories rushed into his head.

There had been a rhinoceros eating his tea;
And dancing to music, but how can that be?
He remembered he had come here to pick up the ‘phone.
He remembered the smell of perfume and cologne.

His mum popped her head round the edge of the door.
‘Are you awake love, I’ve been hearing you snore.
You must have been very tired to sleep before tea.
What with lessons and then cricket, such a busy little bee!’

Johnny was not sure that his dream was a dream.
He remembered the rhino’s face covered in cream. 
If it was just a dream, how come he was here,
sleeping in mums room? It was all so unclear.

He decided he wouldn’t tell what he had seen.
He wasn’t sure anyway if there really had been
a rhino, or whether he just dreamed it up.
A rhinoceros? In England? In leafy Sidcup?

So he put all his memories to the back of his head,
until one day his father looked at him and said;
‘ Let’s go to the zoo, say hello to some creatures.
Then tomorrow at school you can tell all your teachers’.

So they spent the whole day, exploring the cages.
Johnny loved the meercats and watched them for ages.
Then they saw lions, bears and strange birds,
and wilder beast rambling around in their herds.

Then suddenly, out of the corner of his eye,
Johnny saw something and he let out a cry!
There was a rhino, lying flat in the mud.
Johnny’s old memories returned in a flood.

He stared at the beast who rolled over and over,
enjoying his mud bath, as if it was clover.
Then as he watched, the beast turned to look at him,
and Johnny was sure that he gave him a grin.

Rhinos don’t grin, Johnny tried to think straight.
Rhinos don’t drink orange, or learn how to skate;
They don’t eat sponge cake, mangos or cream;
Well maybe, perhaps, as a part of a dream.

But as he was about to turn round and move on,
The rhino stood up and faced him head on.
Looking at Johnny and appearing to think,
the rhino gave Johnny a whopping great wink. So, was it a dream, or was it for real?
Johnny doesn’t know what to think or to feel.
But he has wondered many times, how a rhino was able,
to squeeze through the door and sit down at the table!
©DF2007
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

Inspiring Rainbows.

       Inspiring Rainbows is a sister blog to one of my other blogs, Creative Rainbows. Creative Rainbows is about my artistic work, and this new blog is about my writing.

I began writing less than a year ago…January 2007, and wish I had started many years earlier. I enjoy working on poetry and prose, depending on my mood. I also have a childrens’ novel started (about four chapters) and plan to take part in NaNoWriMo, which begins in less than a month. This will be my first attempt and I thought that perhaps recording my progress might help encourage me. I have a novel planned out…sort of, in my mind, but I have no idea whether I will accomplish this project, far less how bad the writing will be. We shall see!

So, welcome to my blog. Watch this space:)