I have now held a couple of online writing workshops via Zoom. They have worked very well so from now until lockdown is over I intend to hold a Zoom workshop at what is our usual meeting for workshop time. That is, for those of you who don’t know or can’t remember, first Thursday of the month, 2-4
This means that the next workshop will be Thursday 5th November 2-4 via Zoom. To log on you need the ID and password so please contact me for those nearer the day (I haven’t booked the meeting yet)
contact me for details on email@example.com
NIGHT ON OUR STREET.
Silence sings her lonely song
heavy with nostalgia.
aimlessly she wanders,
lingers by the cars and vans,
drifts into the garden
passed shirts and tops and socks with holes
dreaming on the washing line
This is the world of nocturnes,
of hedgehogs and the urban fox,
of spiders weaving silver webs,
of winged death and scurrying life
whispering its stories.
Soon silence will retreat
fold the night into herself
sound and light once again
regains its place of dominance.
Eileen Earnshaw Autumn 2020.
From our first experimental 40 minute workshop Adina produced this lovely piece before her computer broke down.
I remember the days we spent so fondly
And all those leaves which kept falling and falling
Though autumn gave them quiet beauty
A solidity through time beyond their brown colours.
So dead in hand yet lively in heart…
Their colours fading green to brown
And after too little time the leaves had piled
That rain dig and dig and the wind sings
Till the fruitfulness autumn winds had lost their lustre
And the miserable weather brings no beauty
No matter the colours of the leaves
If no other rain can mellow whisper
No wind should blow at all
Nor leaves should fall again.
Death. Rain. Dark. Life.
This piece also came from TCWG first online workshop, hosted by me, Ray Stearn, Chair of TCWG. The covid lockdown has meant that we look for other ways to meet and Zoom provided the opportunity here. This came from a ten minute exercise in a very short 40 minute workshop
In Spring there is life.
Summer this year
Was never under starter’s orders,
Damp, miserable wind and rain.
The trees were green
But rarely seen.
Colours of flowers helped
But Summer was a washout.
I love Autumn,
Season of mists and yellow fruitfulness,
Season of mellow crowdless cricket
Fell first ball.
I gaze out
From my window
Wondering where the year has gone,
Where it will go.
A brown dog gives a bark
Leaves its mark
We wait for the last season of the year
For in Winter there is death
© Ray Stearn 3rd September 2020