An Afternoon With Bessie

In my childhood years our bread was delivered by Ronnie and Herbert and Bessie the horse which pulled the baker's van. One glorious school-holiday afternoon, my friend Averil and I went with them on their round. We clambered up onto the driver's perch and were allowed to hold the reins. Bessie clip-clopped up Broadway and Broadoak Road, she knew all the houses where she had to stop and would stand waiting whilst one of the boys delivered the bread in a large basket, - it was usually Herbert, the one with cottonwool stuffed in his ears. Ronnie was the sparkling one who, when we reached the farm, pretended that a loaf had fallen off the van and then fed it to the ducks and moorhens waiting on the pond.
To us, our afternoon with Bessie was an adventure, - the sort that is no longer available for today's children.

On Leaving Scotland

The skies were sad to see us go,
Clouds weeping copiously,
So intent upon their own grief,
Noticing not our misted eyes.

Their tears became rivers, creeks,
Cascade and waterfall,
Our tears were but salt upon our cheeks,
Serving no purpose at all.

JB

The Last Journey

Dressed in brilliant colours,
Detached by the breeze.
Floating, gliding twirling,
With memories of green.

Glinting in dappled sunlight
On the journey down,
The first leaf of Autumn to
Fall and lie still on the ground.

Dressed in brown, there is a chance
To live again, albeit brief,
When lifted and carried by the wind,
Or scuffed by joyous feet.

JB