The last removal truck winds its way down the drive and peace settles once again over the avenue. The rooks, which have congregated in the elm trees throughout the day, occasionally rising into the air in dark clouds of agitation, begin their evensong.

I see cardboard and wrapping paper drifting idly around the bushes, and the odd toy flung unnoticed in some remote corner of the garden. A cool breeze stirs the raspberry bushes, laden with fruit that will remain unpicked this year, and daisies droop on the overgrown lawn.

They’ve gone, this family who have been the focus of my attention for the last twenty five years, moving on with scarcely a backward glance at me.

For days I look out, wondering if one of them might come back for some forgotten item, or perhaps to say goodbye properly. They never said they were leaving, but then, who am I to figure in their plans? How could they know how central they were to my existence?

Sometimes, if I listen carefully, I think I hear the children at play in the garden, running along the drive with excited squeals and giggles. Dogs bark, stirring the leaves of the rhododendrons as they go in frantic pursuit of imaginary cats or rabbits.

With little else to occupy my time, I admit I’ve deliberately snooped on them, involved myself in the minutiae of their lives. I watched dubiously when the young couple first moved in, but my reservations turned to joy as they brought their first child home from the hospital. The baby cried all night that first week, and they shushed her repeatedly, no doubt worrying about the neighbours, but for me the sound heralded hope for the future, maybe some kind of permanency.

Three more children were to follow over the years, together with a succession of noisy, enthusiastic dogs who dug up everybody’s gardens. It didn’t matter. There was such vitality in this family, you’d forgive them everything.

Everything except leaving.

I turn inward on myself. Months pass. The days are long without company of any kind, with nothing to observe. I sense I’m deteriorating and realise what a pathetic sight I’m becoming.

The winter drags on for ages. I cringe as the icy wind rattles my windows and finds it way under doors and through the gaps in the floorboards. Snow drifts along my driveway and there are no other neighbours who care enough to keep it clear.

Eventually, winter relaxes its icy grip and crocuses begin to push their heads above the frozen soil. The days lengthen; small comfort for me though.

Then one March morning, lost in thoughts of the past, I hear voices outside. I look down and see a young couple staring back at me.

“This old house?” says the man, incredulously.

“Oh yes,” she says, hugging her swollen stomach. “A perfect place to bring up children.”

They struggle with my rusty locks and I fling my front door wide to welcome them into my dusty embrace.

My rafters sigh with contentment, and my roof tiles quiver in anticipation.

The circle begins again.

-

Sandra Crook’s other work can be found here, where she also takes the opportunity to remove your will to live with her photos and cruising reports from the French waterways.

It has passed again
you bought me a card
with syrupy inscription
that looked a little odd
above your name

niceties done with
a kiss exchanged
we quarrelled our way
through just another day

no fancy meal
no scented bath
no moonlight walk
that evening
we retired to bed
just as we always have
and slept
with the dogs
between us

-

Michael Ashley is a 30 year old man who lives in Huddersfield. In between the humdrum of life and walking his dogs, he writes a little poetry.

You’d think we are more or less of a piece on the great treadmill of life. It isn’t so. Some of us are fit and quick and some are fat and slow.

You could even hear it down on the street. JellyBaby – that’s what Gilly’s husband called her, was already out of breath having humped her thirteen stone body up the two flights of stairs to the gym. She could hear the music louder now, pounding already in the bum-bum bum-bum-bump beat it always has that makes your head throb and your ears want to explode. A cloud of chuckling young goddesses tripped past on the mezzanine.

The big glass door felt heavy and pink light flooded out on the bum-bum bum-bum-bump wave. The place smelt of new carpet, perfumed sweat and hot wheels.

“Can I help?”

“Jell…Gilly…”

“Ah! I’m Pat. You phoned. You’ve come for a look round and appraisal?”

“Yes,” she said, breathless. She was expected. It felt like the first hurdle.

Pat made it all sound like a breeze. “Now, do you have any medical conditions or disabilities?”

Gilly enumerated them.

“So – a few. We’d best get you started walking then.”

Gilly was ushered onto a solid looking treadmill and Pat started pushing buttons – incline, age.

“Not too fast,” cautioned Pat, “we want to keep that heart rate down because of those palpitations. We’ll just lower the speed a bit…”

Miss Zero on the machine to the right was running at a steady pace, elbows in synch long legs stretching out towards the church roof – her feet pounding bum-bum bum-bum-bump. Super Gran on the left was on a variable programme and the whee-ee-ee of the mechanism changing speed and incline lost Gilly her concentration so that she moved momentarily backwards and jarred.

“Oops! Careful now – it’s your first time.”

Gilly’s conveyor belt crawled along and her boobs marched up and down.

Pat showed Gilly to a floor mat. “Now just get down with hands behind like this.”

“I can’t – because of…”

“Your wrist – of course. Okay sit on this ball.”

Gilly sat and toppled off backwards then crawled to the nearest machine to help herself up.

“You’ve not hurt you back?” asked Pat in a flurry of concern. “Can’t be too careful with a prolapsed disk.”

At that moment Gilly was more concerned with her prolapsed ego.

“Okay lets try the abs on here,” said Pat loading 14 kilograms of weight onto the next torturous framework – “and PULL – just to chest height… And eight! Well done. Now next we’ll try you on the upright bike. We don’t want to put too much pressure on that knee!”

The vibrating platform nearly shook her fillings out, her cat-stretch was more elephant ride and all the time her rotund belly did a good imitation of her embarrassing nickname.

“You’re going to love it here, Gilly,” enthused Pat. “Before you know you’ll be on our leader board.”

“Your what?”

“Most successful – pounds shed, inches lost.”

“You think so.”

“I just know it!”

“So – crunch time,” said Gilly, “How much does public humiliation run these days?”

-

Oonah V Joslin is Managing Editor of www.everydaypoets.com and blogs at oovj.wordpress.com where you can find links to her other work.

when my father
pointed out the belt
and sword

I never really saw it

he called it Orion
and told me
when we weren’t together
we’d both be able to see it

recently it dawned
this was his half-arsed
way of saying goodbye

perhaps if I’d been
a little older

I may have made more
of the moment

but even today I can’t make
out The Hunter

it all still looks like sky
to me.

-

Michael Ashley is a 30 year old man who lives in Huddersfield. In between the humdrum of life and walking his dogs, he writes a little poetry.

The women are sitting in the lounge. The younger of the two is aware that her mother is talking to her, but she doesn’t hear the words. She examines the deeply etched face, lines for which she feels no guilt or responsibility. There have been no reprisals either, just desperation so intense it’s almost tangible. Immune to the nervous chatter, she notices the gap where the grubby net curtains should meet in the middle. She used to sneak wistful glances through that gap. As she looks through it now, all at once the years start to roll away, and she knows that she will soon leave again.

-

Jan Lane writes from West Dorset.