remembrance

 

the village murders

Regular viewers of BBC's long-running 'Midsomer Murders' drama series might be forgiven for thinking it's all just a bit of harmless fun. A mild-mannered fiction to while away the dark, winter evenings.

With a body count to date of some 423 lost souls how could it be anything else? And yet, behind the twitching lace-curtains of rural Middle-England, similar scenes of carnage lie waiting to be found should you care to look close enough.

The ladies are taking over and your intrepid reporter is hot on their trail.

The first victim has taken refuge for a few precious moments in his man-cave. Lovingly, he files a strip of metal ready for his next job. Engrossed in his work he fails to notice her draw near.

It could have been any of his tools, the electric drill, the axe or the heavy-duty spanner, but her chosen weapon is the rubber mallet.

She lifts it high, squints her eyes to focus on the target area and...

We now join what, at first sight, appears to be a perfectly innocent cake-baking session.

Her recipe-book, baking-tins and ingredients are laid out neatly on the breakfast bar. Behind it sits an admiring gentleman, wine-glass in hand. He smiles beatifically in contemplation of the coming joys of lemon drizzle.

But wait, what's in that brown medicine bottle? Surely not!!

Surreptitiously, she turns her back and pours the contents of the bottle into the glass mixing bowl. Look at that fleeting but deadly smile which plays across her face as the dreadful deed is done.

The poisoner's next victim is about to be claimed.

Let's raise a toast to the ladies of our life!

Behind the closed curtains a warming fire is lit and stoked and two blood-red glasses are full. Now all that remains is for the poker to land. It doesn't take long. A solitary well-aimed blow to the back of the head.

She takes a sip from her glass as he lies prone on the floor beneath her foot.

'Cheers, darling!'

We pass just a little further down the ill-lit lane and enter yet another house. Sock-footed we stand in the shadows and watch for the noose to tighten. 

She chooses a length of brightly coloured material from the vibrant selection laid out on the table before her.  Silently, she moves to the back of his chair, loops the material over his head, twists the knot and pulls tight.

Try as he might he cannot break free and his head slumps to his chest.

History repeats itself in the last house of the village. We enter the room, head bowed, through the 15th century black-studded door. It's here the ghost is rumoured to roam.

Yet another occupant lies slumped across the polished dining-table. He's surrounded by candles and despatched by a candle-stick.

And so we leave the twinkling lights and twitching curtains of a Middle-England hamlet by the caustic and fittingly-named Cemetery Lane.

Tomorrow is another day...

and john died

 

  

and john died

buried in dirt

beneath the last leaves

of

an autumn Sunday  

 

 

 

 

 

mourning

 

 

somewhere in an english church

  

somewhere in an english church

in silence

passing through

colours

and candles

and lights

and flowers

and pipes

 

somewhere in an english church

in silence

passing through

the black monks

and the high  

and the mighty

and the lowly

and the dead

 

 

somewhere in an english church

 

 

 

the rake's progress ... or the sad tale of cedric dearie

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cedric Dearie (1958-2022)

 

The life of Cedric Dearie sends a cautionary warning to profligates the world over. Born into wealth, Cedric is the youngest scion of the mighty Dearie dynasty - the renowned inventors of the self-levelling empire-line trouser. Coming into his inheritance early he proceeds to blow the family fortune in a tawdry saga of repeated entrepreneurial failure.

 

His first business venture is a budget remake of 'Jaws'. Predictably, cut-backs in the props department mean the film tanks on its opening night.

 

 

 

Undeterred, Cedric begins an unexpected but rapid descent into the seedy underbelly of the criminal world. Whilst on holiday in Italy he enters a sordid backstreet cafe´where he's propositioned by a steely-eyed Mafioso searching for an assassin to take out the head of a rival gang.

 

Sadly, poor Cedric mishears the job offer. His subsequent venture into on-line millinery merchandising  fails spectacularly and he's forced to close 'The Hat-Man' barely a month after its launch. 

 

Here's a picture of Cedric with the remnants of the 'fire-sale'.

Things go from bad to worse for the increasingly desperate Cedric. His next move is into the hospitality trade, but sadly his decision to sink the last of his inheritance in 'The Naked Chef's Bistro' proves disastrous.

 

Cedric sustains third-degree burns to a sensitive part of the anatomy during an unfortunate incident with a hot wok. It brings  a sad and painful end to his latest venture.

Fame and fortune having eluded the aging Dearie for so long he has but one last roll of the die. Cedric turns his back on the world of commerce, declaring, "A poet I shall be!"

 

Seated uncomfortably on a stool in his kitchen he begins to write, the words pouring out from his tortured soul...

 

 

It's all downhill from here

I was born to this world incredibly young,

bereft of control over bladder, bowels and tongue,

but as I grow old I'm sorry to say

I'm hurtling downhill with no means to delay.

 

For that which was supple and flexed with great ease

is now fused solid from hips to the knees.

Whilst a thing once rigid, jutting proud, firm and bold

droops limp in reverse, a sad sign that I'm old. 

 

The waist grows thicker, the hair starts to thin.

Spare me the tonic, just bring me the gin.

 

So with stoic resolve it's the final big drop,

a vertiginous fall from life's mountain top.

It'll bring me full circle to where I've begun,

bereft of control over bladder, bowels and tongue!'

As the ink dries on his masterpiece Cedric is overcome with emotion. He falls from his perch to an untimely death, the Rake's Progress now complete.

in the park

 

 

the evening shadows

play across the water

it's all happening here

in the park

 

a football match has not started well

the ball is lost

but a rescue has begun

 

sickness and death

lie out of bounds

we dare not touch

for fear

we may be found

two lovers meet

and part

here in the park

new beginnings

a fresh spring start