Even Hermit Crabs Get Lonely

Even Hermit Crabs get lonely
On the sea floor beneath the waves,
As a tide of life sweeps above them
Whilst sheltered in their shells.

The crab scuttles across the bed
Of the deep and teaming sea,
And in it's solitary home it dreams
And in it's dreams is free.

Akay Wood

I

In the woods I walked
Till a sight through the arms of trees
I saw, a light that burned
Amongst the dark,
Emblazoned on my eyes.

It was cold that night.
A frost made crisp my steps.
And I felt a peace descend.

II

Though a star is chained it dances
And in it’s throws illuminates those
Cast under and aside, with different shades
Are all perceptions changed.

III

I am the Lord of the Dance, said He

In the revel of an evening
By the light of the shining star
By the side of the slow running river,
Midst the trees as they creak

Even as a solitary figure in the shadows
Where questions are echoes –

The grass made ice figurines
Ferns carved and hardened.

No answers are given,
As I walked the path home.

The Tale of Rhun Hir ap Maelgwyn

‘Seek it then, foolish King, but know what fate awaits you’ the hag screeched in the shadows of the hovel. ‘Know that others faster and stronger than you have looked for the sword of Rhydderch Hael, and never come back.’ The fire in the middle of the floor flared in eldritch blue, and the hag seemed to dance amongst the embers. The wind outside howled louder as it streamed down the sides of Yr Wyddfa, and pounded on the hide entrance. Rhun Hir ap Maelgwyn kept his eyes on the hags face no matter where she moved, his distrust made the greater by his friends advice “fear the hag Rhun. Watch her case she steals your treasure.” Rhun had puzzled at this and questioned his friend. “Your life Rhun, your life!” Now he was alone half way up the side of the mountain beneath Clogwynn Du’r Arddu, the “black cliff of the darkness”. And in this hovel Rhun began to think he had found the heart of that darkness.
‘Tell me hag where it is. Then I can leave you and this filth’ said Rhun in a harsh whisper. His fear was driving his temper and he was struggling to keep his peace with the hag.
‘Disgust, foolish King? Not disgust. Fear I think. Fear. And yet where you will go for Rhydderch’s sword is darker than the rocks of Yr Wyddfa, foolish King. Oh yes.’ Her eyes seemed to burn brighter like a cat’s. How he longed to get out of here and run back down the mountainside. It was only his wiseman’s council which had told him to make the treck alone, otherwise the hag would never be found. Her hovel was said to never to be in the same place the next day, and the ground showed no signs of fire or of people passing. But up hear she lived beneath the howling mist ridden hills, beneath the cliff of the darkness.
‘Tell me where to find it. Your silver is there’ he threw the bag on the far side of the fire where it chinked to a stop.
‘Ah very good’ she said ‘but not enough. Promise me a promise Rhun ap Maelgwyn and I’ll tell you of the way to the Dyrnwyn sword.’ The sword of the white hilt. The sword of fire that would bring him his Kingdom.
‘I give it, hag’ he said. To be done and out of here was all he could think of.
‘Not soo quick young buck, for favours three you’ll agree, then the sword that burns the darkness fires the soul, will in your hand be control’d’

I should not care of words I heard

I should not care of words I heard
Spoken in woolly ears of feted friends
Beneath a gloomy sky of smoke and ale,
Upon a bench of drink and bums
Sodden in a way of misery
Far from the churly ears of work
Under a barley star of freedom

I should not stand for triteness
Nor shy away from pompousness,
But glory in the revel of the evening
As gory heads are lolling
Though the trauma of the dawn.

To be easy in the way of words
Spoken in silent love of things
Both dear and not dear
And peaceable and passionate
Till it echoes from the door,
In a reeling week of selflessness.

Rebuilding Iraq

INT. NEWSDESK. DAY

NEWS PRESENTOR SAT AT DESK. WE CATCH HIM HALF WAY THROUGH A SENTENCE.

NP: …which is why Chelsea have one the league on expenditure. We’ll catch up on today’s sport later, but now over to Tosh McDonald in Baghdad.

EXT. BAGHDAD. DAY.

A LARGE BUILDING IS SOME DISTANCE BEHIND THE COL.

A BRITISH COL. (BC) IS BEING INTERVIEWED BY TOSH MCDONALD (TC) NEWS PRESENTOR.

TC: Thank you Colonel Blakely for giving us this chance to meet you in what must be a busy time for the British Armed Forces in Iraq.

BC: Sorry, was that a question?

TC: Well, not as such. Colonel, many people in the press and in the public are questioning whether the rebuilding of Iraq is meeting with any success.

BC: I’m not following you Tish…

TC: Tosh

BC: … Tosh that’s what I said. Was that a question?

TC: Well, no, but would you like to comment on the rebuilding of Iraq and how you see it going?

BC: Well Tiff,

TC: Tosh

BC: Tosh, we’ve been here for many years now, and I think it’s an excellent time to start rebuilding.

TC: Yes, it’s about the rebuilding that’s happened that we the public would like to know about from you Colonel, as you are in the field seeing it happening.

BC: Am I? Yes, well I suppose I am somewhat closer than the people back home as it were so I do see some building going on.

TC: So are we the Allies making headway against the wave of terrorist attacks and implanting an infrastructure, in the face of what many are saying is turning into a civil war?

THE BUILDING BEHIND THE COL. BLOWS UP.

TC : Christ!

SCREAMS AND SHOUTS ECHO FROM THE BUILDING AND SURROUNDING AREA.

THE COL. REMAINS UNMOVED AND SMILING.

TC: A terrorist attack! We should move out of the area. This doesn’t look safe.

BC: Terrorist attack?

THE COL. LOOKS BEHIND BRIEFLY

BC: Oh! I see the confusion

TC: Confusion?!

BC: Yes well, some of the locals are a bit sick and tired of waiting for the rebuilding to start

TC: Meaning?

BC: They lend a hand

TC: Lend a hand?!

BC: You know, with the demolition and the ‘blowing of things up’, as it were. You can’t rebuild unless there’s something destroyed now can you?

TC: Surely Colonel you’re not suggesting that what happened just now was a controlled demolition?

BC: Well, not controlled as such, but it’s ever so hard to communicate when the infrastructure isn’t in place for a cohesive amalgamation of resources and expenditure.

TC: Meaning?

BC: Well, we don’t speak their language.

TC: You can’t be serious

BC: Perfectly serious. We’ve tried asking them to blow up specific things, but they seem to have taken too many lessons from our American Allies and just go ahead and knock down whatever looks out of place.

AN ANGRY MOB OF IRAQI’S ARE SURGING TOWARDS THE INTERVIEW, WAILING.

TC: I think we should leave now

BC: Leave? Just as the training is about to start?

TC: Training? Oh sod this, let’s get going!

THE CAMERA CREW AND TC MOVE OFF BUT KEEP THE COLONEL IN PICTURE.

BC (SHOUTING): We’re training their army! They haven’t quite got the hang of not shooting at us, but I think it’s just the language problem!

A Rifleman in Winter

Corporal Leo Bunin’s breath came out in a cloud in the ice cold air of the Russian winter. He had to constantly move his fingers, the tips of which were not covered by his woollen gloves, incase the skin froze on the metal of his German rifle. It was a fine rifle, one he had found under a body on the decimated outskirts of Stalingrad next to the enormous grain silo. The craftsmanship of the rifle was impressive; it’s wooden stock smooth and polished, the metal seamless. He had fired it three times. He hadn’t hit anything that he had intended to, but Leo was aware of his own capabilities and regarded this as a failure of his own skill as a marksman, rather than the quality of the tool he was using. And it was a tool. If he thought of it as a tool, it made it easier to fire the thing, than if he believed it to be the weapon it was. On the three occasions he had pulled the trigger, a wave of relief passed over him when he missed.

But now he was lining up to shoot the rifle for a fourth time. He was lying on the embankment of a ditch, his left eye closed as he lined the shot, his breathing steadying as he tried to keep still. If it wasn’t for the dreadful cold, it would have been easier to stop his shaking, but his clothes were inadequate to stop it permeating through.
In a copse of trees his target moved. A dear, startled already, by who knows what, was ready to sprint away. He had seconds to shoot before the moment was too late. He squeezed the trigger. A figure dropped from a tree but too late the dear had sprung away deeper into the thick of trees. His bullet must have wildly missed as the man was stood exactly where the dear had been.

“You Russian’s, you know how to cope with the cold. In Germany we don’t get the winters like this. It is hell.” Said Heiko. Leo laughed and bit into the roasted meat. Actual meat! Their combined thinking and organisation had given them a proper meal, and a shelter to keep warm in. In the silence of eating, a Stuka could be heard diving, even from this distance.
“I hate that sound.” Said Heiko. “It scares the hell out of me.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do. The only thing I’m scared of is everything” he bit into the meat. After a moment he paused in his chewing. “It’s your plane though. Why are you scared?”
“It’s not my plane.”
“It is. German’s built it. You are German.”
“I can just about say I own this watch. But when I am shot, it won’t be my watch. It will be whoever ransacks my corpse. I didn’t make it. Someone who made this has a little bit of ownership in it. But does it matter if he’s German of Russian?”
“If he was Russian it would be worthless! Stuff we make always falls apart!” He laughed and Heiko laughed to. Heiko relaxed warm and full. The fire blazed briefly, throwing sparks into the air like a miniature volcano.
“But that plane. I didn’t make it. I haven’t flown it. I haven’t even seen it.” He craved a cigarette. His full belly would be better for it, he knew. “How do I know who it belongs to? German yes, but not my Germany. Probably never again.”

Cumbria

I went to a boy’s school in Cumbria
It was lovely a place as could be,
Except for the school
With it’s misogynistic rule,
The forced runs, it’s food
And no heating.

I loved the fells and the becks,
And the views that stretch on forever,
Over hill and dale, midst summer or gale
It is beauty irrespective of weather.

But the boys I never did like,
Which inevitably led to many a fight,
So tucked in my room
I’d read through the gloom,
Till I loved thought over fought
beauty over cruelty,
and that which appeared to me true.

So fight if you like,
Mock and make light,
Of everything you see or hear,
But that which is dear
Is a self without fear
Forthright, loving, and kind.