Another mixture of stories with one common theme, "nothing". John's was adventures underground. Joan Read read a disturbing tale of death coming to a family. I recounted a story of anticipated passion. Joan Edmunds told of a missing Premium Bond. Sue told of a woman who floated out into the sea while asleep to be rescued by a fisherman. The question was asked did she marry him but we will perhaps have to wait to find out. Sally told of a spider in the salad based on a real event. Sheila told of childhood memories. Pat gave us the background history to Corfe Castle. Ann took us back into caving.Brian's got the most votes a tale of long ago.
NOTHING
Gone is the forge, with its leather-aproned, shirtsleeved men, sweating in hoof-burned, acrid-dimness. Pulling out white-hot metal from the roaring furnace's eye-catching glow, with long tongs. Then knocking into shape, the hiss and the whisps of steam as the horse shoe's were dipped into the bubbling water.
Gone the sudden jangle of chain and brass, the creak And stomp over us as the great Shire horse's turned at The plough on the headland high banked above the deep Lane. Glancing brown-eyed and black hair-fringed,
Down at us as they passed by.
Gone the square, brass-buckled and broad-shining leather Belted, hobnailed booted men who shovelled coal into Heavy course sacks, which were them loaded onto the Lorries.
Gone are the people who came out from they cottages
With bucket and crook to dip water from their wells.
Gone are the nightingales with bramble-hills and willow,
Which hid, sheltered, nested and fed them, and the night jar,
Spinning its purring web of sound from the centre of the
moonlit field.
Gone the flocks of starlings that rose in dense clouds, to descend into the reed-beds at the mouth of the river,
bending the stems under their weight.
Gone are the Romanies that lived in the forest.
Gone are the Hares, you would see as many as 20 pounding
Round the fields. Grunting, Kicking, Bucking, they boxed
Like Kangaroos, jumping over each other, lashing-out With their hind feet. You never see that in March any more.
Gone are the clicking of milk bottles on the door step in the Morning. Gone are the cry of the RAG & BONE man as he pushes his barrow up the street. Gone are the large white £5 notes.
Gone...." ARE YOU GOING TO SIT THERE ALL DAY? YOUR TEA'S READY, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN
THINKING OF"?
OH! NOTHING
