 Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014. This and many other poems, have recently been published in anthologies including - Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’; Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’; Vagabond Press’s, ‘The Border Crossed Us’; ‘Degenerates - Voices For Peace’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ and ‘Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones’ from Weasel Press; ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, and a number of rather excellent on line and print journals. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com My Father’s Son I never knew my father’s son. Even though I met him once, or maybe twice, I never knew him. And then I met his son. Caught him miraculously in a net. Held on to him tightly. And, I found that he hadn’t left early, my father’s son. He’d waited for me, wondering, for a long time. And so I found him, my father’s son. When he was just ninety six, I found him. But I was too late to know him. At ninety five, he was already dead. So I never knew him, my father’s son. Jacko I saw him flapping around in the grass, one wing at an improbable angle. I chased him, caught him, wrapped him carefully in my cerise and navy school scarf. Jack, jack, jacko.. Then it was a bus ride to the charity vet who set the broken wing, wrapped it carefully in plaster, a heavy pot. He was subdued on the bus home, but still managed to greet my mother, Jack, jack, jacko. He perked up later after tea and explored the living room placing bits of straw artistically and decorating them with pooh. Which was why he had to live at school, home only for weekends. Jack, jack jacko! But he enjoyed bus journeys now and greeted all the passengers, hopping from shoulder to shoulder, waking them up with a wang from his pot, nibbling an ear here and a nostril there. Most were charmed, but some were not. He was close to becoming the only jackdaw to be banned from public transport. Jack, jack, jacko!! And then disaster! the wing had not healed. There was decay and gangrene amputation and the trimming of his lovely long feathers to balance him. No more hopping from shoulder to shoulder, well, maybe later with practice! But no more prospects of a wild life for Jacko Jack, jack, jacko... And no more home with me said my mum as the school holidays loomed threateningly. Jack, jack, jacko..... But nearby the vet, a budgie had died and it’s owner, bereaved, had a need and it was love at first sight for both her and Jacko. Jack, jack, jacko!! There were photos in the press. He was famous! A local hero! Jack, jack, jacko!!! Barcelona Sandals Standing in the Andorra snow shivering in our Barcelona sandals. Glad of a lift down to Foix as darkness was falling. And the driver knew a hotel, Hotel du Centre. Very grand and full of people looking down long noses. But the driver knew the owner who was a kind man, a nice man. So we shouldn't worry about the cost, he said. A lovely room and in the morning, breakfast! We must eat the owner said. Warm bread and jam. Coffee with hot milk which tasted sour. But I don't like the taste of milk, anyway, so most likely it was sweet. And then the bill. But there was no bill. Save it for the journey, the owner said. A kind man, a nice man, who believed the driver's story, whatever it was. A few years later, we returned to Foix and went to find Hotel du Centre. But it wasn't there. No one knew it. It didn't exist. Did it ever exist? Did any of it happen? Or did we somehow share a memory from our imaginations. Ripples Ripples of time gathering pace. Working up to the wave that crashed into me, propelled me forward and now sucks me back. Thirteen decades. Back. To a place beyond my imagining, so tidy now after the crash. Gentrified now. Rippling gently. But before, in my father’s time. There was beer mixed mud and crowding children. And smells of horses and metal. Working. Fire and metal work. Children who would leave behind the mud, and country smells, for the dust and smog. For the city grime. Streets and factories. More fire and metal. Bigger. Grander. And what then? Still poor. What then? What secrets lie in those ripples of time washing over me now. After The End The sideboard was full of magazines. Not whole magazines but pages torn from them. Pages of recipes. Meals never eaten. Exotic desserts never attempted. Guest never invited or entertained. At least the furniture had been used, had had many years of use. The clothes had been worn, the pictures admired and enjoyed. But the recipes were the saddest thing. So many of them for so many people who never came.
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