In Memoriam
by Nickie Aven    2020

Wilfred Owen died aged twenty five,
unnecessary hero of a war
he neither chose nor wished for; his enemy
some German boys he played just once at football
on Christmas morning. Before he fell.
The bells would toll for Wilfred, justly so.
Samuel Rowntree died aged thirty three,
unnecessary casualty of a war
the British waged on China, for the right
to sell its people juice of sleeping poppy.
Vain did the Chinese plead to stop the trade;
the British pocketed their greedy funds and laughed.
But opium, like a spectral shadow followed
to British shores. Now centuries have passed,
illegal dealing and illegal profiting,
addicts here are bums, are scum, a scourge,
other than we, criminal, undeserving.
Instead, the respectable citizen gives his charity
to worthy causes, children, animals, the sick,
for veterans, buying poppies, paper poppies –
Lest we forget.

I think of the drug problem in the West and especially here in Britain, as a sort of ‘national karma’. We reap what we sow. The colonising, patriarchal British have immeasurably hurt people and exploited their lands, the pursuit of wealth and power made possible by a sense of superiority and entitlement and by ‘othering’ those of different colour skin, different customs, culture and religion, different gender or sexual orientation and different species. Separation is a misperception, mis-take (the original meaning of the word ‘sin’) and allows us to use, abuse, conquer and exploit the earth and its inhabitants, until our very existence is in question.

My deep wish is that we could carry greed, abuse and exploitation both past and present, consciously, to atone, to make amends, to connect again to our humanity and our earth in unity and appreciation.

Now I am Alone   
by Nickie Aven 2020       

“I am alone,” she said, when her husband died, “ and because I am alone
I will put the bins out and bring them in again; I will clean out the compost bin.
Only I will cook and only I will eat it. Will I cook what I like or what is good for me – or will I cook at all?
I will no longer buy tomato ketchup or cheddar cheese; will half the housekeeping suffice?
Only I will clean – or not.
I will be the dog’s only person and at home if I do not talk to him I will talk to no-one.
I will lay and light the fire now and keep it going or be cold.
I will go to bed when I choose and take up all the bed, waking diagonally across it.
I will put the kingsize duvet on alone and spread my clothes out in the wardrobe.
“When I look at the shelves he built, at the drum he made, at the harp he encouraged me to play, at the shed he built  himself and loved – his sanctuary he said – at the ring upon my finger, will I feel more alone or less?
“When I talk to him will he hear me?
When I say yes to things will he see my courage?
When I paint the house will he like it?
When I buy that painting did he really want me to have it?
When I weep will he know?
When I can’t play the harp will he understand why?
Can he tell me how to mend the doors on his shed and which timber to get for the outdoor shelves I want to make?
Will I be sad for the rest of my life?
When I long for him is he longing for me?
Am I holding him back or is he holding me?
Will he mind if I move?
As time moves on will he exist only in my fading memory or am I taking us with me wherever I go?

Snow Fall

By Nickie Aven 2021

Snow fell silently last night.
Today the world is patchy white and cold.
There is no breath, no trace of wind;
trees stand statuesque, freeze dried.
Birds dart garden to garden hungrily,
calling, “There’s some right here”,
or, “This is mine, keep out!”
For some, this newly whited world is fun,
                                     exciting, magical, picture pretty.

For me, there’s something else, remembered.
Last time it snowed, you were alive,
not well but here,
your inner world new washed;
you wished to stay – I think –
as if potential death had opened life afresh.

Now I view the snow alone,
worry the car’s brakes will freeze and lock again,
fear to fall when walking with the dog.

My heart is heavy-warm and sad,
regretting little, longing much –
fruitlessly like empty trees,
without their hope.

Perhaps, if I ask them well,
they’ll lend me some of their’s,
lend me trust in the cycle of things,
in fruiting elderhood,
until that final winter
when the snow so thick
will cover all my tracks.

The Road

By Nickie Aven 2021

What a road we walked,
                              my love and I:
Mountain passes we navigated well;
rivers we crossed, some raging some in song;
but always hand in hand,
                                     my love and I.
I trace my finger on the map,
                              alone now:
Each day another mountain on the road;
floods and dams, dry river beds of sorrow;
and always longing for,
                              my love and I

When you were dying…

I walked a wasteland,
everything living was over there
beyond my ability to touch it.
The wasteland was inside me too
as I tended to your every need,
a dwindling privilege, an exhausting task of love.
Inside and outside – blasted both.
This thin, hard, sandy strip,
just wide enough to place my feet upon
and stretching endlessly in every direction,
this was my habitation.
The only respite to this busy desolation,
an empty one
when you’d be gone
and I
unnecessary.

Nickie Aven 2021

Listener by the River

Nickie Aven 2023

The river here is shallow,
bed rock protruding through the surface,
splitting the river’s flow.

I watch the dipper dipping,
barely perceptible against glinting water;
chestnut blossoms float into the stream
and birdsong melodies above the river's bass.

This green song,
this moving harmony,
this dancing life.

And I just now the witness,
the listener, audience of one;
apart and a part, both,
soothed in my silent sadness
by the rhythm and the rhyme
of life in motion
into the sea,
into winter's death
and cycling back into a spring river
running by and split by rocks.


The Gift
Nickie Aven 2023

He gave her a gift:
“However humble”, he said,
“it carries my heart.”

She looked at the gift,
brown paper and string,
no fancy ribbons or peacock wrap.

“Whatever it is”, she said,
“I will treasure it”, 
and slowly undid knots,
unfolded paper,
looked in the box.

Warm sunlight lit her face:
a box of sunshine!
But lurking in the corner,
cowering, hiding its face,
crouched Shadow-
she knew no other name by which to 
call it.

And through the seasons,
sunlight came and warmed her face
and warmed her back,
yet Shadow followed.

She gave him a gift:
“However humble”, she said,
“it is my heart”.
He wept.
“Your love has warmed my heart”, she said,
“and made it shine”.

The days grew short and long once more.
He lay beside her as she breathed,
until his own breath laboured 
into stillness.

He gave her a gift,
however humble.
It will last her lifetime,
however long, however short,
until her breath labours
into stillness.

Life and Death

Ashes to Celluloid

By Ros Forge

Now I am dead and gone, who am I now?
A piece of earth - dust to dust I have returned.
Do I live on?
Good question, no answer from me 
The dead have no voice.
But the living do. 
They speak my remembered stories, 
Display my image, in photos and on film.
Speak to me in their times of high emotion or 
Perform their tasks, as I did, 
Cooking or gardening or sounding off - 'just like Mum'. 
Love lives on in their memories. 
They can't quite shake me off, they are wearing my necklace. 

The Waters of Life

By Ros Forge

Water rises bubbling, breaking onto the hillside, 
travels though the uplands and downlands of a lifetime, 
meandering, hurtling, twisting and sidestepping. 
Life in abundant variety, 
drybed and floor, debris and treasure
moving inexorably on 
to the stately union of freshwater and salty sea. 
Is it over now, the river's journey? 
No no 
Now comes the sun, tenderly drawing up water
drop by drop into gathering storm clouds
falling down again in the lashing rain. 
Sinking dow, down, deep into the hillside, 
ready to tumble eagerly into a new lifetime. 

Prayer to the Moon

By Roland Lee

Rise slowly from your resting
glide across the silent blue
and smooth me with your wonder.

Make this blessed hour at mine
swing with your cradling love tide
soar and fly in the beating sky

Pour full the shade of loving
the growing ways of knowing
and breathe with me the season.

Before and yonder of my time
with tears as soft as rabbits ears
sway our souls, us living things.