This anthology the latest publication by the group and is a collection of poetry & prose of wonderful short stories & poetry created by the writers on the theme of the effects of the COVID-19 over the last two years. Funny, tragic, insightful and a great read and a beautiful addition to anyone’s bookshelf. I have the pleasure of having one poem “Silent Serpent” included.

Christmas Traditions

Christmas was always full of celebrations
lights, parties and total togetherness
traditions carried by all generations.

2020 was not such year
people spent it quietly contemplating
found enjoyment in simple traditions;
the single day of The Christmas Carol.

2021 will be traditionally joyous
true friends, families can meet in Christmas Present
money spent simply like Bob Cratchit
friendships, families repaired by reformed Ebenezer
to be carried to Christmas Yet to Come.

Cherish the lights, the day when it comes
with all its traditions so simply passed down
by Generations. Hold it tight, simple
as the finger of Christmas Yet to Come

for it celebrates a child born in a stable
who would become a refugee, teacher
whose message is Love for each other
and the Lovely Earth we live upon.

Carolyn O’Connell©

Abhanian na Sláne

High in Wicklow’s Lugulla Mountain you were born
slipping to life, they named you after Sláne,
son of the First High King, whose sword
welded Leninster in being. You scroll your way
from your birth rock nestled by fey trees, lush farms:
the towns: Ballincorty, Enniscorthy, Tullow, Ballinglass
— I know them well —
rising stronger, wider till you fall to Wexford, die in the sea.

You are a symbol of life, Slaney as they call you now
in that tongue he never spoke, yet still holds meaning:
you are the river of health and wholeness; something
we seek but never find in these times as the earth cries;
even the trout, the salmon do not rise as one they did.

I played upon your banks, learned the art of tickling trout
and crossed you every time to visit old family places,
my mother’s trip to lay flowers on her parents’ grave.
We’d gather round the fire in my Aunt’s long house,
swam your waters as at Rosslaire where they met the sea .

Now in a foreign place I see you framed on a wall,
the Forth Mountain rising above your wide waters,
and  catch your eye as he did when he swam ashore.
I’m once again in Sláne’s arms immersed in those times:
with those people now gone, healed by your waters —
my being, soul returned to strength, to wellness.

Carolyn O’Connell

Thanks to Ronnie Goodyear the Editor I have the following poem Published in this Issue .

Living Gently

Sitting in the shade I dream
of that beach of silver sand,
walking dunes where grass
grasps back the wild waves.
A path winds between
wildflowers blue, gold, reds
patterning a bedspread
of dreams, desires:
freedom from the presence
of fears, surrounding silence
capturing my heart.

I turn toward the cobbled streets:
the red roofed houses, clustered
as they cling a narrow path,
to open to a cobbled square
dressed with trees, geraniums.

Cafés spread welcoming awnings.
I take a seat, order fresh croissants
a coffee, sit, watch the busy crowds
gather on this market day.
A glass of wine, why not?
time has no meaning on this day!
The waiter chats inquiring
“would Madam like another glass, or cholate?”

I can taste, feel
the hand of the chocolatier,
the tongue of the vintner
blending, fashioning this sunlit town.

Carolyn O’ Connell © Published in Reach 274 August 2021

This poem is now pinned on The Places in Poetry North-West Section during the Lancashire Lit Fest.
the pin is Bolton. Thanks to Paul Farley & Andrew McRae for accepting it

Horwich Memories

They lay where his roses once grew
beside an old chapel named New,
watching a loved panoramic view
scene from an old wall to the Irish Sea.

Memories sweet I hold of that spot
a cottage where love sprouted twice,
it’s rocking chair and a special cake;
walks up to the moor rising high above.

Tobogganing on tea trays or hessian bags
was a Boxing Day ritual when snow spread
its blanket on fields above River Douglas,
Easter walks on the moors to gather wildflowers
and climbing the Pike was a ritual honoured.

Summer brought trips to sea at Southport
or Morecombe, buckets & spades, swimsuits
fish & chips, rides and ice cream brought delight
we’d return after picnics & a wander of shops.

Now they’re gone but the memories live on
 mother and step-father, days doused in love & fun.l ©

The cows graze in the green valley
on grass studded with wildflowers,
drink from a river where trout play
voles dance on through its banks.

They walk to parlour when they want
when their bodies say they need to be milked
hitch themselves to the robotic machine
that cleans udders, sucks the milk away.

There’s little labour for the farmer 
no need to round-up, milk or carry
or spray pesticides as his father did: 
he’s alerted to all twenty-four hours
for the land looks after itself, rain or shine.

He’ a happy man for his milk sells 
for premium prices, he exports it 
for its value for its great goodness,
filled with nature’s gentle bounty
and tuned to the season’s rhythms.

The cows, and the productive land
he’ll pass in perfection to his children.

                                                          —7/2/2021