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.




The Slapton Line

Long sweeping curve of the bay 
Thread of yellow 
Meets mist 
And foreboding cloud
Disappearing into a charcoal sky. 
Whipped up waves 
Churn against the shoreline;
Light plays on the ever changing surface 
Of indigo and grey;
A constant movement of the beast 
A heaving mass of rolling wave
Surges and falls;
Hides the creatures that live beneath its surface.
No sign of porpoise or seal,
And where is that great Leviathan we once saw? 
When eyes trained for hours 
Were rewarded with 
That great spout of water and arch of the tail;
That spectacle so great;
Nothing today but
Random  illusions from
Effervescent forces, 
The  damp wind in the face
And  voices blown away on salted air.

Haiku pattern – Tables Turned


At the end of March
We stepped off the planet
The world kept turning.

Our pace had to slow
With endless restrictions
Nature stayed at work.

We began to notice 
Sounds so more distinctive 
We listened more.

Birds became louder- 
The blackbird, wren and thrushes?
You just thought that way! 

We had quietened
And so insightful we saw more 
That was nature’s gain.

Unhindered by us 
Nature continued growing
The tables were turned.

What when this all ends- 
Will we forget this learning?
We owe it to the earth.

Storm Approaching

Clouds of grey are churning 
High above in stratus;
Soughing of trees increases
With punctuated stopping
Under heaviness awaited.
Intensity foreboding;
Drawn to be outside 
To feel the storm approaching 
To feel the pressure dropping 
Into deep depression;
Oppressiveness in air 
A world more monochrome;
The road joins the sky;
Hedges lean in closer.
An air of caution heeded
With Heavy drop of rain 
The turning off of light 
Foliage  hanging heavy 
Birds going quiet.

Walk to Lydia Bridge

An ancient bridge 
Spans moorland gorge
Deep running 
Clawing at the rock;
Smooth worn boulders 
Undercut 
And crystal pools 
Dark hollows block;
A cobbled path will take us still,
Smooth worn by constant tread;
Age old route beside the river 
Leads up to Lydia Mill.
Moss covered rocks line the way
Tumbling along its line;
Trees overgrown and leafy shrubs
Restrict this view of mine.
Sheep though graze beneath the boughs
To shelter from the rain,
Tucked in and hidden well
Till showers have passed again.
The way,though short,is special still
What waits is worth a view;
The water tumbles down with force
Primeval smells of  damp earth ensue. 
The climb is short 
An ancient stile
Of stone is at the ridge;
Beside darkened pools the final task 
To reach this ancient bridge.