Cows mooed. Birds bubbled in a nearby hedgerow. Butterflies fluttered by. A Gatekeeper, Jane said, pointing to a butterfly fluttering by. Benedict watched as the butterfly fluttered along ahead of them. Wasn't sure, he said. He caught her out of the corner of his eye. Dark hair, let loose, shoulder length; blue flowered dress short sleeved. I ought not to say whom you can see and whom you can't, she said, pausing by the hedgerow, looking up the narrow road leading to the small church, if you want to see that Lizbeth girl it's up to you, she added. Benedict looked at her. She comes looking for me; I don't go looking for her, he said. Her eyes looked at him: dark eyes, warm, searching, honest-to-God eyes. What does she want with you? Jane asked. A sound of a tractor in the distant field. Whatever it is she won't get it, he said, eyeing her lips, how they part slightly, her teeth, small but even. She seemed hooked on you, Jane said. She looked at Benedict's quiff of brown hair, his hazel eyes. Guess she is. He tries to push thoughts of Lizbeth ******* in her room a few months ago and how she wanted him to have *** with her and he didn't want to and didn't. Much to her annoyance. He pictures her body semi-undressed, her bed waiting for them. He couldn't. Jane frowned. I had a word with her in the girl's toilet at school, Jane said, she showed no shame in wanting to have *** with you; I couldn't believe any girl could just do that. Benedict sighed. Some can and do, he said, I didn't want to and so didn't. She seemed relieved to hear that and walked on and he walked on beside her.  Why didn't you? She asked, have *** with her? He thought before answering, didn't want to say the wrong thing. He heard the cows mooing louder as they walked up towards the church lane. I wouldn't, not just out of lust, he said. If you loved her would you? She asked. He didn't love Lizbeth, he liked her for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, but it wasn't love. Don't think so, he answered. She was quiet and they walked on up the narrow lane. A blackbird flew over their heads. The smell of flowers was strong. Cow dung from the farm was as strong. He studied Jane's hand near his: slim, fingers narrow, neat nails. Do you love her? Jane asked. No, he replied. He wanted to say he loved her, loved Jane, but it was a big statement to say and he didn't want just to blurt it out. They entered the churchyard. The small church was nearby. Lizbeth had been here with him twice or so. Once suggesting they have *** on one of the church pews. Narrow wooden pews. Would she have? He asked himself as he and Jane walked past old tombstones. He guessed she would, but he couldn't, not there, not anywhere. Jane paused by a grave. He was a tractor driver who died when his tractor fell on top of him, Jane said, pointing at the grave. It looked new: new stone, fresh dug earth, flowers. O my God, he said, how sad. Yes, it is, she said. His wife and children had to leave the tied cottage afterwards. Benedict caught her perfume as she leaned near him. He couldn't identify the flower smell. He couldn’t imagine her wanting him to have *** with her anywhere. Yet, oddly he felt he could with her, but he knew she wouldn't so it was safe to think it. But not like Lizbeth who was gagging for it-to use her expression-, but out of a love feeling, maybe. No, he couldn't imagine Jane doing such. What did you think when that Lizbeth girl brought you here? Jane asked. Thought she was just going to show me around the church; she said she was interested in the architecture, he said. She lies good, Jane said. He nodded. They walked on around the church, walked past other graves, older, moss covered stones. Were you tempted to have *** with her on one of the pews? Jane asked. Of course not, he replied, looking straight at her. Never dawned on me that she'd want such a thing. How could she even suppose you would? Jane said. Because she wanted to, she imagined I must want it, too, he said. But on a church pew? She said, her voice having tones of disbelief. He sighed. I know and when I said people might come in she said serves them right for coming in, he said, trying to recollect her words exactly, but couldn't. Jane opened the small wooden door of the church and they entered. It was cool. The walls were white painted. The windows were painted with religious figures. This is God's house, Jane said, she shouldn't have even thought of such a thing. Benedict looked at the altar end. A small crucifix stood on an altar table with a white cloth on it. He looked at the side pews. He tried to find the one he sat in with Lizbeth and she suggested having *** there. It made him go cold thinking of it. Jane walked to the altar end and sniffed. Incense from Sunday, she said. He smelt it too. He smelt her perfume more. She was close to him now. Her body was inches from his. His body tingled. He knew he loved her. He wanted to say so; wanted to say it loudly to her, but it was the wrong place. He looked at her body encased in the dress. Slim, narrow, her ******* were small, but tight. She was curved. He looked away. He knew he ought not to think of her in that way, least not here. Let's sit and pray, she said, and walked into one of the side pews and sat down. He sat next to her, pushing thoughts of Lizbeth from his mind. Keeping the image of her lifting her skirt and showing him a glimpse of her thigh from his mind. Jane had closed her eyes in prayer. She was a parson's daughter; prayer was natural to her as breathing. He closed his eyes. Smelt her perfume mingled with incense. How did one pray at a time like this? He thought, pushing Lizbeth's thigh from his inner eye.

We sit by the river
on the grassy bank
our bikes parked by trees

Milka says
no ***
Auntie Flo's come

I look at the water
who's she?
I say

she looks at me darkly
my bad week
she says

I look at her
is that why you
were so long
coming down
this morning
while your mother
was giving me
the works?

What do you mean
the works?
She says moodily

you know
tea and biscuits
offering me stuff
being nice
talking warmly
walking quite seductively
across the room
I say

so while I was having
to bathe myself clean
and stuff
she was coming on
to you?

That's a bit strong
just being nice to me
I reply

she fancies you I bet
if she wasn't
so ancient
she'd be at your door
Milka says

jealous of
your mother?
I say  

no annoyed that she
has the nerve
and with you
for encouraging her
you should take pity
on her not
encourage her
Milka says

she pouts her lips
and stares ahead
at the flowing river

I just sat there
didn't have to
encourage her
the tea was nice
and the biscuits
quite scrumptious
I say

aren't I nice
and scrumptious?
She asks
turning and gazing
at me

shame about Auntie
I say
and it is such
a lovely day
and the grass
is quite tall over there
and well that's it
I guess

yes it is
she says
so make the most
of me as I am
and be nice

she kisses me
and we lay down
on the grass
and make the most
of what we have
and curse Auntie's arrival
and she thinks
of what may have been
and I think of her
and try to keep
my thoughts
quite clean.

Stroll through the vast fields
Where the sun's evanescent rays shine still,
Where the wind whispers a sweet melody
To the graceful willows,
To a place where wildflowers dance
Silently amongst the golden barley,
Further still, to where the humble oaks
Survey the land below with unrivaled wisdom,
Forge through the gentle sea,
until the crisp breeze of spring carries you away.

-E.M.

Part I

No words need be spoken
Inhaling loudly,
She is mindful and content.
The only artifice here
A camera in her gear;
This instant in a frame
As wonders engulf her,
She claims.

I stand at the centre,
Swamped by
The tick of high heels and chatter.
Mindful and composed,
Left aghast
By the mass who walk past.
The right words come up
Binding my feelings to my art.

Part II**

Smell the air
Both dig inspiration
Elsewhere;

Differences
Of worldly proportions
Our nature
Do not fit by definition.

Entering each other's realm,
We love to understand.

May this gap
Be bridged with time
For I am afraid

We do not rhyme.

I love the hills
Patted soft by time and feet
Of so many off for walks.

I love the cold
Strange, I know,
But when I'm shivering

I love the rain.
The second skin of
My land telling me I'm clean now.

I love the grass
The carpet of the thick ground
A sponge to all my anger.

I love the solitude
Because it's always just
You and me,

My world.

Today is the day. As in customary, we shall start with the weather: The morning is clear and cool, the sunshine weak but well-meaning, the wind sweet but sharp and the trees green and chatty.

This day has been a long time coming. This day has. For too long it has skulking amongst the future pages of some misplaced internal diary. It's long shadow has been edged with fear, dreaded like an exam. Said fear melts away like yesterday's clouds, replaced by sunny optimism, for this date is now set in stone, frozen hard over night it now stares me down with oblique neutrality.

I'm not going anywhere, it whispers softly. You're fears are misplaced. Your fear of me is a your fear of death. Useful up to a point - but essentially irrational. Whatever will be will be and it will today.

The morning gather pace and after momentary brief salutations and briefer negotiations the train is boarded. The destination: no one knows. We know the names but they seem oddly sterile now, the sound cold hard lumps in our mouths, currency worn smooth: Edale, the pennines, the peaks, Absorbic. Citric. Folic, Formic Carbonic. Sulphuric. Deoxyribonucleic, Lysergic. Acid.

The absurd signposts of anonymous hamlets lazily swing by with increasing rapidity, blurring into one like the blades of a helicopter.

Post-industrial scabs and sores instantly give way to merry bucolic splendor as itchy, thick balaclava of the city in torn away. Laugh about nothing as we are hurled headlong into some postcard image of an England long lost between 'then' and 'now' where trees sing, walls are dry-stone and happy cows and sheep await noble, happy deaths; all wrapped in honey-coloured sunshine.

Rolling mounds of soft green matter undulate gently to a halt, and we emerge intrepid coloniser of a galaxy far far away. Locals eye us warily, the hot sun looks down angrily now. The baking mud coughs dust in our eyes and yellow spears of dead grass stab our tender shins. The warm fuzzy nostalgia that we are draped in gives way to...something else. Illogical patterns snake across verdant valleys, breathing and twitching. Harsh blue sky melts into hazy horizon, like oil on water. Panic sets in.

Pleading looks are exchanged and whilst reassurance is sought, none is found. Each gaunt face is scoured for hints of strength. Leaderless we wade through a sea of shimmering heat, collecting beads of sweat, losing hope of succour. We seek solace in plastic pound-shop distractions, only to find we are rendered too numbskulled to operate children's toys. Terror turns to horror. The yawning maw of madness, death is now so close we are caressed by it's putrid breath...

Release! Baking savannah morphs to cool,  mottled-green grotto and everything has already changed. All is bathed in verdant peace and ears can feel the cool lapping of a friendly stream.

There's  a world outside my little square window
that overlooks fields and woodlands and sunsets
and that world overlooks a bustling avenue with
shutters on windows and constant, humming traffic.
There's a world outside my little square window
that keeps wakes me with the same sun every morning
and the same old singing birds,
and that world rouses me with a different kind of music;
of people and chatter and busking and life.
There's a world outside my little square window,
a world I would never have been tired of exploring,
and that world is named Paris.

Autumn night drive
we follow country lanes,
Singing Queen.
As, in the condensation
on the windows,
We write words
and draw shapes.

And through the lines
we have made
we glimpse
tree after, silhouetted tree
passing on by
when the sky,
Dark as it is,
Still displays
the very faintest hues
of orange at its base.

And behind the words
we have written
we see
mysterious lights
drifting through some distant field.
And I find myself
made strangely aware
of the way in which
the world has always continued
to breathe
and move and live,
Each night and day,
Far beyond the enclosure
of my eyelids.

Behind our seat belts,
We are still,
While the world moves around us,
We're coming from somewhere,
And we're on our way home,
What does that mean?

When we were in the city,
In the town,
In the streets,
There was a plastic bag
caught on the plank of a bench,
And a ball stuck in a tree.
There was a man wheeling his bike in the twilight,
There were walls and walls and doors and floor...
And walls with yellow white squares on them
That got smaller as they reached the sky,

I saw life in the squares,
A family ate dinner,
A man was on the phone,
A woman read a book,
And a man drank alone.

The faster we moved,
I watched their bodies blur,
They do it everyday,
What does that mean?

Eyes grace the celestial mechanics that
scatter our skies with glittering objects
alive with humming ancient materials.
Down here Man can't see deeply enough
into the skies so brimming with beauty
that he forgets to marvel at the above.
Although the ground is rich with earth
so delightful and thriving with life so pure,
so simple it is to focus solely on the crust.
What objects and footprints grace our ground
and with what items they hold in their hands
is not so important when looking from clouds.
Precious and selfish, pathetic and cruel can't
do justice for the description of Man
and tracing the stars should help one think.
Think with the mind and not with the eyes,
there is far too much that hasn't been seen
yet by curious, clever, keen minds.