The Traveller - Ros Willard

Father was always an adventurer.
As a boy he journeyed in his imagination
to Africa.
Paddling across Penrose Lake
on the raft he had made
he was Burton or Speke,
Stanley or Livingstone,
searching for the source of the Nile.

As a young man
he climbed the Ruwenzori Mountains,
cycled from Izmir to Istanbul,
rode a golden Palamino across the Pyrenees.

In middle age
he cruised on luxury liners
to Antigua, Barbados, Mauritius,
travelled on the Patagonia Express,
the Deccan Queen, the Rocky Mountaineer,
painted watercolours
in Hong Kong, Honshu, Honolulu.

In old age
he wandered the streets,
bare-foot in the snow,
trying to find his way home.

Ros Willard

Trees - Ros Willard

The slender poplars
quiver in expectation
as Spring approaches.

Heads bowed, willows wash
long lustrous gold-green tresses
in sun-flecked rivers.

Dying russet leaves
fall; a discarded ball-gown.
The dance is over.

Silver birches, stark
against a monochrome sky,
bleed internally.

Ros Willard

Granny - Ros Willard

My gran is not like other people’s grans
who sleep through days as if already dead,
dreaming of the past with no future plans,
rehearsing for the endless night ahead.
Her hours are not spent watching TV soaps
in a rocking chair, knitting coloured squares.
She does not dwell on long-extinguished hopes
or offer up a string of fearful prayers.
She has not let her dark hair fade to grey
or worry dim the brilliance of her smile.
She has not yet forgotten how to play
or lost her sense of elegance and style.
She is the person I’ll aspire to be
in sixty years, when I am ninety-three!

Ros Willard

Thursdays - Ros Willard

Thursday was always my shopping day.
Each week I would collect my pension
from the Post Office.
Standing in the queue
I would chat to Betty and Joan and Deidre
about our dead husbands,
our grandchildren,
the weather.
I don’t anymore –
the Post Office closed last year.

Afterwards I used to queue
in the butchers, the greengrocers, the bakery,
exchanging recipes, suggestions, advice.
I don’t anymore.....

Now on Thursdays
I go to a town
ten miles from my village.
Surrounded by strangers,
speaking to no-one,
I stand in a supermarket
and watch my fruit and vegetables,
bread and meat,
process in cling-filmed silence
along the conveyor belt.

I don’t know what I shall do
when they stop the bus service next year.

Ros Willard

I Was - Ros Willard

I was a baby boy during the reign of King Herod
I was a Polish Jew in 1943
I was an eleven year old girl in Hiroshima
I was on the 84th floor of the World Trade Centre
I was a prostitute working the murky streets of Whitechapel
I was on the maiden voyage of an unsinkable ship
I was just eighteen when I fought at Passchendaele
I was Queen of England but I ruled for only nine days
I was born at the end of the fifties, with no arms or legs
I was in Sri Lanka on Boxing Day 2004
I was at Kings Cross the day fire broke out
I was an aristocrat during the French Revolution
I was one of Stalin’s “enemies of the people”
I was in Herculaneum in AD 79
I was kidnapped, shackled and sold to a plantation owner
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ros Willard

Writer’s Block - Ros Willard

I sit, pen poised above a blank page
but no words come.

I am sure they will flow again
when I have inspiration,
when I am less tired,
less stressed,
have more time,
when I win the Premium Bonds,
when the interest rates go up, go down,
when the Saints go marching in,
when the lion lies down with the lamb
and the waters cover the sea,
when bluebirds sing over the white cliffs of Dover,
when Jupiter is in alignment with Mars,
when the cow jumps over the moon,
when it’s winter, summer,
when it rains cats and dogs,
when Hell freezes over,
when I’ve climbed Mount Kenya,
Mount Fuji, the Matterhorn,
when I’ve seen Vesuvius erupt,
when I’ve bathed in the Ganges,
swum with dolphins
and sailed on the Nile,
when I fall in love,
out of love,
suffer the pangs of unrequited love.

In the meantime I sit,
pen poised above a blank page.

Ros Willard

The “Peter” Limericks - Ros Willard

There was a philander, Peter,
whose girlfriends were Joan, Pam and Rita.
His wife got annoyed,
a hit man employed,
now Peter’s no longer a cheater.

***

In a draughty stone castle Sir Peter
could not find so much as one heater,
so to keep out the cold
in a building so old
he drank Plymouth Gin by the litre.

***

There was a young cannibal, Peter,
who married a girl called Conchita.
He loved her big eyes,
her lips and firm thighs.
In fact, it was hard not to eat ‘er.

Ros Willard

New Year Celebrations - Ros Willard

I wish I could jump on a magic broom
and not have to stay in my boring bed-room.

I’d fly round the world to greet the new year
from Papua New Guinea to Tanzania.

In a house adorned with bamboo in Japan
I’d laugh, hear the bells and wave a red fan.

In Spain I’d eat grapes at each midnight chime
to ensure that next year is a happy time.

In Denmark I’d join boys and girls throwing plates
on the snow-covered doorsteps of their best mates.

In Sweden I’d have a big glass of glogg
to wash down a slice of chocolate Yule log.

Gentle St Basil, with his gift of peace,
would visit me when I arrived in Greece.

I’d zoom in and out of the London Eye
watching the fireworks light up the sky.

In Rio, O! what a sight it would be –
a boat laden with flowers pushed out to sea.

I’d help build a scarecrow in Ecuador,
watch him being torched and hear the flames roar.

Lastly, I’d see the ball drop in Times Square
and pick bits of ticker tape out of my hair

before flying back to my cosy bed
and waking next morning to the year ahead.

Ros Willard