Mike Pomfret
One of the writing group's most prolific and talented members died suddenly at the beginning of 2009. The adjoining photograph shows him in March 2008 with Carol Lockhart, another long standing member of the group. Mike had been very seriously disabled for eight years before his death – having to live his life in a wheelchair and only able to type with one finger. Nevertheless he was a regular attender at the weekly group meetings for over six years and produced many pieces. We thought it a fitting tribute to show you some of them. This page contains some of his work – in varying styles. There are five of his poems:- A Winter's Tale, Music, A Walk in the Woods, Yesterday and Blagg Street Blues (the latter published in Homage to Cheshire March 2009 Pub. by Cheshire County Council at £1) ; two short stories The Devil and all his works and Most Important; a memoir of Marrakech; and Gone to 'Eaven which he called my "epitaph".
A Winter's Tale
Do you cringe,
smile with bitten lip and nod?
Look to the heavens,
and pray the watery winter sun
will melt behind a duvet of grey cumulus?
"Today's weather."
Chirpy and cheerful
she stands framed in our dear Isles.
Her warm front enticing,
but soon to be confronted
by an icy, Arctic blast.
"A warning."
Gusty, gale force winds, sleet and snow.
Do you know; have you heard?
Will the overused pleasantry
be covered with a cold white blanket,
or be carried away by the wind for evermore?
"Breezy and blustery."
Hectoring and bullying body and soul.
A flapping cape; Frisbee hats
and loose skirts exposed by their summer intentions.
Umbrellas held low hiding pinched faces
seeking the comfort of office or home.
"Looks like snow." White, wispy flakes whipped by the wind
into spikey spears of sleet.
Worry etched features of
drivers, passengers and walkers
as they slip and slide to their havens of peace.
"Heavy drifting."
Winds scour the open spaces.
Humanity becomes snowbound.
Gritters and ploughs spread and furrow
but mankind flounders still
and seeks refuge from the squall.
"Snow on high ground"
Children's delight on sledge and slide
while snowball pelted parents
build a carrot nosed snowman.
Laughter filled times,
with winter warming drinks and soak in hot tub.
Calm after the storm; love after quarrel.
"Have you had a 'Nice day'?"
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The DEVIL and all his works
I awoke startled. Last night's disagreement unresolved. My cook's dumplings had left the Bishop and mein some discomfort, but my criticism, by reference to the Lord's last supper, was misplaced. She served me stodgy porridge and silence for breakfast.
The communion bell thankfully called me to church before my wife arose.
Crossing the graveyard another loose tombstone lid drew my attention. It had been a full moon last night - was it the devil's work? The regular nature of this meddlesome phenomenon was becoming a matter of grave concern and in need of my attention.
Communion was a dour affair. A loud report whilst on our knees caused sniggering. The evil fug pervading the pews caused exclamations and phews from the choir stalls!! Farmer Boddington's weekly excesses - Satan's curse - gave reason for bloodshot eyes and foul breath at the communion rail. His daughter of fourteen. drew unnecessary attention. Her skirt was showing her calves and her bodice, cut so low, was excessively revealing.
Joseph, the verger, interrupted my reverie and whispered that my favourite walking stick had still not been returned. Stolen from the church porch! Another broken commandment. Was nothing sacred anymore! My sermon for today would have to be reviewed to include harmony of family life; evils of witchcraft; idolatry; excesses; thieving .... I had brief time to reform my words when I returned to my study.
I hoped my house-keeper would serve me ham and eggs but unsweetened tea and dry toast did nothing to sustain my body, or my soul. Renewed chiming of the bells lifted my spirits and I returned to church, donned my vestments and faced my flock.
The time for my sermon approached and I mounted the steps to the pulpit as Abraham ascending Mt. Sinai. My oratory was strident. Condemnation of the Devil, witchcraft and all matters of the occult, brought looks of fear and guilt. "Thou shall not steal,' particularly from the House of God made the young parishioners quake. The path to heaven was long and dangerous if blocked by fornication and pleasures of the flesh, caused squirming in the pews. If carnal thoughts are included with covetousness then .....Mrs Marsden blushed ....my throat became dry and wretchedly constricted.
The service was swiftly concluded and I greeted my parishioners.
Farmer Marsden's gaze was quizzical, "I believe your walking stick is in my hayrick, vicar. Perhaps the next time you call - NOT market day - we could discuss the sins of the flesh besetting the parish."
I took lunch in my study away from my wife's accusing gaze. The ogre had invaded my mind and body. The truth was too frightening to contemplate.
Evensong I approached with apprehension and dread, my sermon was wisely filled with the need for compassion and forgiveness. I returned to the sanctity of the vestry. The choirboys, such innocents, were changing from their cassocks. I was tempted to ruffle young Jamie Marsden's hair but was ridden with sinfulness and wrongdoing.
I spent the rest of the evening in prayer but could not reconcile my thoughts and feelings. Sleep would not come so I finally succumbed to my carnal needs and then prayed on my knees for forgiveness and the absolution of my sins and transgressions.
My wife's sobs echoed from the adjoining room.
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Music
Music, music, music.
From womb to grave we rock and rave.
From cot to coffin we're boogyin' and boppin'.
We swing and sway as mom dances away her day.
We jingle and jangle while in mom's arms we dangle.
Once on our feet we get the rhythm
and are dancing like we're in heaven.
Country, folk, classics or pop.
Yippee, yuppie, hippy, hop.
Solo, duet or choir, group, band or orchestra.
Puff the reed, blow the brass, strum the strings, string the bow,
pluck the harp, play the keys, ting the triangle, trash the cymbal.
Bang, BANG the big bass drum.
or wave the conductor's baton.
Put on your hi-fi, stick in your i-pod,
listen to piped music or birdsong from God.
Shake your booty, rattle and roll,
rock your socks off, smooch or stroll.
Come dancing, ballet or play,
it's around us each and every day.
Over everything and all above,
'Music is the Power of Love'
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Most Important
The bar-room was quiet. Hushed. Expectant. Sir Mick Richardson had his audience hooked, dangling on his bait of yet another anecdote, tall story, or in this case a snippet of gossip. A loud guffaw of laughter filled the room as his acolytes and troglodytes bowed to his insider knowledge and superior wit.
Sir Mick was an imposing figure. Tall, ramrod-straight with a head full of blond, wavy hair. Ruggedly handsome with the scars of first class rugby adding to his charm. Suitably dressed in Savile Row and sporting his customary white, spotted dickey bow he stood out like a peacock in a flock of grey house sparrows.
He claimed to have a commoner background but grammar school and Oxford suggested otherwise. He and two other bright university sparks arrived early into the internet boom and their fledgling company was eventually capitalised before being sold for in excess of £100m. Mick Richardson then entered politics, a subject in which he had graduated with honours. His business acumen soon saw him rise through the junior ranks of no hopers until he was sitting on the opposition front bench as Transport Minister.
The day's proceedings at the Party Conference had been humdrum until Sir Mick, knighted in the Spring, had stood at the rostrum and given his vision of transport for the rest of the century. He had received a standing ovation, not for content, but for presentation. It was for this reason that I had arrived to interview him for The Independent and buy him dinner. Apparently caviar and lobster, or partridge in season, featured in his Conservative eating habits.
He spotted me over the heads of his diminutive colleagues and signalled me to join the group. Most left when they spotted me and Sir Mick boomed. 'Unlike some of my departing colleagues,' he waved dismissively at the backs of the departing hangers-on, 'I hope today will get me on the front page. Stirring stuff eh?' He playfully punched my shoulder. I had a whiff of some very expensive aftershave. It was rumoured he sprinkled some of the contents in his underpant drawer. 'Mater and Pater will be proud of their boy today.' It was rumoured that he was a mummy's boy. One that he endeavoured to scotch by bedding all the capital's socialites. He edged his Gucci brogues closer and whispered, 'Quick dinner tonight. That sprightly young thing from Ag' and Fish' is looking for a leg up in her political life.' Another punch followed.
There was a sudden disturbance at the door. Sir Mick glanced over my shoulder and appeared to pale -perhaps annoyance at the interruption. I saw the reflection of two burly policemen and a plain clothes guy through the mirrored glass at the back of the bar. The room went quiet. The large television sounded very loud. An announcer was reading the news. 'We have news just coming in of a raid earlier this evening at the Chelsea home of a prominent opposition member. Unsubstantiated rumours indicate that computers and a large number of DVD's were removed, suggesting a connection with the widespread swoop on a European paedophile ring ...........
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A Walk in the Woods
Hi everybody. All keen?
Boots on and gaiters too
If you want to keep your trousers clean.
We're joined today by one or two
writers from our local group.
Good luck to them, let's see how they do.
Today's walk is a six mile trek,
up Blaize Hill to start and probably muddy.
Do I hear goody-goody or 'Oh heck’?
No more to do
let's make a start.
Anyone for the loo?
Off we go,
stick to your own pace,
slow or very slow.
There will be plenty to see along the way,
nature at its best
and we've been blest with a glorious day.
Many of you, I know,
will be familiar
with the beauty of Bollington. So
it is beholden of me
to say no more,
and allow you the delights to see
the real purpose why we ore out.
The final stroll through the woods
and the splendour of spring - THE BLUEBELLS ARE OUT.
That should give Linda and friends something to write about.
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Marrakech Memories
I arrived in the cool of the evening, the understated elegance of the French hotel a stark contrast to the mini-coach trip from Agadir. The fierce heat of the day travelling through the western edge of the Saharan desert, the searingly hot wind uncomfortable on the face through the open coach windows. Barren, starkly beautiful scenery only made bearable in contrast with river valleys of limited vegetation and the amazing tree climbing goats. The local Moroccan women, ankle deep in the river in traditional fashion, attending to their family washing. Entering the Atlas mountains the air became comparatively cooler and the sun was setting as we drove into the 'Gerlioz', outskirts of Marrakech, 'Red City' or 'Al Hamra', the second largest city in Morocco.
This French section is outside the city walls. Palm and tree-lined boulevards of hotels and restaurants offer a relatively calm alternative to the frenetic pace of life inside the city walls. However, time spent by hotel pools and in French restaurants, is time lost to the excitement as you walk through one of the twenty or so city gates. This is an ancient, 11th century walled city that includes the 'Medina', the cheaper, more provincial, French section.
The smaller gates offer a look of city suburbia. Quiet, shady streets of shuttered houses, all leading to the central square of 'Djemma el Fna', the.heartbeat of the City. Acrobats, snake charmers, pipe musicians, 'Salam' drummers and dancers, comedians and storytellers in a riotous jumble of entertainment. In the evening row upon row of food stalls appear offering delicious local snacks. Around the Square you can relax in relatively inexpensive restaurants and bars, many on first floor balconies, from where you can watch the kaleidoscope of colour, flickering stall lights, noise and people and be entertained by wandering musicians.
Marrakech does not have many monuments or historical buildings but this is compensated by the atmosphere and spectacular location, within view of the snow-capped Atlas mountains. Marrakshis are noted for their warmth, sociability, humour and honesty. Despite their reputation this can be found in the shade of the souks where, in the narrow crowded lanes, courtyards and squares, the exotic is blended with the hustle and bustle of the market place. The smells of spices, perfumes, leather, metalwork and carpets invade the senses and are further highlighted when watching the craftsmen at work. Bartering over a cup of tea and joining in the afternoon auctions, if done with humour, is great fun and bargains abound. The criss-crossing, vehicle-free, vibrant streets are mesmerising and you may get lost, but that will only add to the excitement. Guides, many in the form of students, are readily available and speak reasonable English. Their charges are modest, although the 'best and cheapest' traders they refer you to are usually related and pass on a small commission.
The Marrakech Museum houses a large collection of Moroccan art and sculpture, both ancient and contemporary and is a place to cool off from the heat of the day. Visit the wall inscriptions of the 'Saadian' tombs, the striking 'Ben Youssef Merdersa' traditional architecture and the ever present mosques, the largest 'Katouba', always visible from many parts of the city. The beautiful solitude of 'Menara' gardens where many local Marrakadians fall in love within its romantic setting. Europeans and Americans also fall in love with the 'Pink' city, within which their palaces and gardens abound. For a taste of luxury take a horse drawn carriage to La Mamoonia, one of the world's finest hotels, made famous by Winston Churchill who, with brush in hand described it as 'paintaceous'. Enjoy a banquet, sat in a carriage, in the restaurant of that name.
All this in a day? It's possible, but the heat is visible as it bounces from the ground and you are advised to be cautious. Take your time, take your camera, take care and enjoy this mysterious, exciting experience.
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Blagg Street Blues
Cobbled drabness
down Silk Town streets
of donkey-stoned cottage steps.
Childhood dreams
on clouds of coke fumed homes
and belching factory chimneys.
Klaxon call
to weave in sheds
of clattering shuttles.
Sound of laughter
from street corner playgrounds
and Vicky Park's swings and roundabouts.
Verdant green of clacking balls,
frisbee rubber mats thrown by proud men
with billowing pipes and 'natty' caps.
Spit and sawdust bars
serving foaming pints of anti-depressant,
a Salvation Army prayer and cockle and mussel supper.
Saturday night dally,
snog and passion behind the iron bandstand
built for 'brassy' Sunday hymns and marches.
Sixpenny 'flicks' of cartoons,
cowboy's and indian's whoops and hollers
ridden through town and corralled in cattle market pens.
War news; worn-out shoes;
coal-man's dues; clogged-up flues;
Ration book queues.
But no-one sings the Blagg Street blues.
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Yesterday
(new lyrics to the tune of Paul McCartney's song)
Yesterday
We had no fears and went all out to play.
Now we sit and rest our ageing bones
And dream, yes dream of yesterday.
Yesterday
What fun we had when rolling in the hay.
Now we think of lovers in our past
In dreams, yes dreams of yesterday.
If it’s time to go
I just hope there are no regrets.
If I’ve not achieved my goals
Then I’d dream of yesterday.
Yesterday
It was love and bells on wedding day.
Making home a place to hide away
And plans to dream of yesterday.
Yesterday
Kids to rear and have their bit to say.
Now they’ve gone to make their own display
And we’re left to dream of yesterday.
Now it’s time to say farewell
To our friends and family.
Our dreams may have no regrets
Although I long for yesterday.
Dreams, dreams, dreams of yesterday.
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Gone to 'Eaven
Bill
Ernie
Heard that Mick's passed away.
Travellin'? Where's he off to today?
Gone on a long journey - Pearly Gates.
Gone with his golfing mates?
Nay he's popped his clogs.
Oh, he's gone t' dogs?
Nay, tha knowst. Put to rest.
Aye he is one o' best.
WAS - pushin' up daisies now.
Too right, he liked a good row.
Not any more - stiff as a board.
Not surprised - drinks he's poured.
I'm tryin' tell thee, he's passed on, gone. Kaput, vamoosed,
God aye, he was a one with the ladies.
You silly bugger, he's six foot under.
Bloody weather - no wonder.
Brown bread, dead, expired.
All that travellin – boun' t' be tired.
Listen, he's kicked th' bucket.
Never! he always use' to say 'F.....
...Turned 'is toes up, passed away.
Aye he always gives yer time o' day.
Dead as a door nail - like a dodo.
Whatever - he'd have a go.
Go? He's a goner!
Aye an oddball - a oner
Havin' a long sleep - on cloud nine.
Whatever tecks his fancy - always out of line....
Down 'n out, pushin' up daisies, deceased.
....Always said 'is piece, pi, p....
Will yer listen. Listen! HE'S GONE TO 'EAVEN! Are yer listenin'?
Ernie? ....ERNIE!! ....Oh 'ell.
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