Ghost routes

A narrow length of grey 
Disappears into black
Between high hedges 
Well aligned.
Ferns are  arched
With secrets held
In spectral stillness.
A Breath of wind
Casts
elicit conversations
Between the leaves,
Murmurs 
Of time forgotten
years
By long gone travellers
Whose spectres linger there
Above the moss 
And creeping ivy 
That twists around 
The gnarled trunks of trees.
Haunting stillness
Envelopes all and 
Takes me in to feel
And breathe that history.




Ramblings -to be a writer

I’ve dreamt of being a writer since I was 10. I spoke of it at interviews for senior school . I worked hard entrance examinations. I read widely- I had a good imagination. However during school that first day of senior school something quashed that idea.

‘Stand up if you are left- handed ,’ ordered the English mistress, my form tutor. I stood at my desk, uneasy in the front row amidst a row of staring faces.

‘Left- handed people are sinister… I dislike sinister people. Sit. My first day and I was just 11. I recall one other girl standing. To this day I don’t know why my teacher said it. All I felt was complete humiliation. That same teacher never graded my work above a C- until the O level year, five years later. Out of the blue she awarded me a B- . So surprised I rang Mum from a phone box to tell her. I’d done nothing different, I didn’t know the reason.

No teacher had believed in me and my dream was gone. By then I was into different things . Though when I finally finished a science degree, I decided upon teaching. You might wonder why?

I wanted to teach to make a difference. I wanted to inspire not ridicule; to encourage not demoralise; to engage with learners not alienate . It is true every teacher shapes a life- but how we shape it is important.

33 years of teaching and I now lead literacy in a large primary school. To be the English lead is quite ironic. My background is science; I was no good at English .

I have started leading Inset in other schools and sharing in teacher groups, and occasionally at conferences.

During lockdown- whilst out on a run – I suddenly thought about writing a blog. I considered sharing my running and the nature that I was seeing whilst out in the local area .

I had no idea how it would go . Suddenly, I started writing . People read it . Nothing prepared me for the positive comments , conversations and suggestions .

Tonight as I look at the screen -it says ‘publish ‘ . I’ve published it .People read and appraise. They don’t ridicule or erase it. They encourage. I am a writer- how can that be?

Shadows

Shadows form;
Charcoal stains splash across the road; 
Light is obscured
Thrown into darkness,
Hidden.
Shadows grow;
As daylight lengthens 
A tree in shadow 
Solidified,
its strength intensified;
Patterns play on surfaces, 
Undersides in darkness 
Silvered above.
Shadows define
The light at the end
Of a tunnel of trees;
The pattern of stone 
In a wall.
Shadows hide 
Those who don’t want to be seen.