Month: March 2026

For Helen and Harry

He stared into the tank as fish swam towards him

in an alchemy of welcome.

Bubbles rose past a plastic diver, and a mermaid’s chair –

until silently bursting into air.

His daughter – mother of his grandchildren –

played half-remembered fragments,

fingers finding familiar paths

along the keyboard of an old piano.

‘Bach’ he said, waiting for confirmation.

She laughed. ‘Bach as it should be played!’

He smiled, his doubts allayed.

Then two nurses sat with them.

‘Do you know this tune, Harry?’ one asked

as Helen played some more.

He said, ‘it might be Handel.’

But he was no longer sure.

‘Helen, where are the keys for our apartment?’ he said,

‘Harry, I have them here’ she kissed his head.

They walked arm-in-arm to Ward C4, diazepam, and bed.

I bought you tulips in Cambridge market

and, for no good reason, thought to mark it

with a smile to all who passed me by

as I walked from Market Hill to home.

I had welcoming eyes down Trinity Street

and smiles for all on Magdelene Bridge,

each one with a happy echo,

and so, at Kettles Yard, I added a tentative ‘hello’.

Outside Shire Hall – though this is not how Cambridge men behave –

Abandonning self-restraint, I gave a wave.

By Victoria Road, I offered bear-hugs for folk who favour this,

and hand-shakes for those who like less ursine bliss.

At St Lukes Church I asked the Vicar for a kiss

(but for legal reasons let the record show,

though not yet Lent, Philippa still said ‘no’).

Approaching home, I welcomed all

to my contented place, my happy heart,

our joyful, sharing, oh so human powers.

Everyone smiles at an older man carrying flowers.

True Stories, NCI Club, January 2026

Once upon a time

On hard plastic chairs with all the comfort of the rack

I crossed my legs to ease my painful back

and waited….

We watched a slender, older woman

watching us. She let our attention settle, and began her tale.

She had crawled through potholes, dragging gear,

deep into Devon’s shoreline caves.

Tired, she reached an expanse of water

where she pulled on mask and wet suit, air tanks, and buoyancy control

like a medieval knight pulled on chain mail, gauntlet, and visor

making practiced checks for safety’s sake.

We entered her tale as surely as she entered the lake.

The Lady of the Lake,

moves between black air and blacker water,

seen only in the corner of an eye,

between moss-covered rocks and deep mystery

she conjures necromancy

and builds castles in the air.

In depths too deep for plant or fish

she reaches for the touch of lost Excalibur

just as my hands grip this plastic chair.

But to our tale.

Her headlamp lit the rope descending,

the coldness

pulling down,

to a darkness that existed

before there was light.

Diving deeper she found a passage

to a second chamber

and there

lost all sense of gravity

saw strange creatures at

each turn of her torch.

Gripped, she thought

her rebellious air tanks

sucked oxygen from her lungs.

No diving buddy,

no white knight,

to raise a thumb

Or guide her back to safety.

I dived into this cavernous story

my face mask visor tightened, my buoyancy neutral,

I floated without gravity among memories dismembered

in deep time’s creation where myth

tells what made us, but had been un-remembered.

The Teller and the Lady both survived their tale.

Back in the cave’s mouth she smelt again cow dung and fresh air.

Ballads would be sung of this, bowdlerized, and shared;

the risks would gain with lustre as each year past,

swords would be pulled from ever tighter rock,

and yet more monstrous creatures conjured from their lair.

I had met them all on my painful, plastic chair.