Southend U3A

October 2023

Open Day

A faint glow on the horizon heralded the promise of dawn and the trees around him slowly began to develop shape in the eerie quiet. It was then that the ghost came on to take centre stage, drifting slowly across the treetops, wings slowly rising and falling, soft edged feathers silent as the grave, the angel of death with a flat white face, powerful curved beak and murderously sharp talons. Its head was slowly turning this way and that, keen eyes scanning the ground for the minutest sign of movement, keen ears listening for the tell-tale signs of squeaking life but there clearly were none because the ghost passed quietly over his head seeking more luck further upstream.
Pete Norman

A sudden commotion broke his concentration and he dropped his binoculars – a male swan was literally running full pelt across the surface of the water, heading directly at him, neck stretched out in front, wings beating furiously, honking angrily. He quickly realised it was not himself that was the source of the swan’s attention, it was a coot that had strayed into the imaginary exclusion zone the swan had set around its mate and four signets. The coot casually made a minor adjustment to its course, honour was satisfied and the swan sank back into the water sending a ‘V’ shaped bow wave shimmering towards the interloper and then it turned serenely around, wings held high in triumph and slid gracefully back to its family; he had done his duty well.
Pete Norman

The tiny wren hopped nervously across the fence, its tail vertical and twitching gently but then it fled back into the dense bushes as a loud clatter signalled a large heron clawing its way in an untidy gangly rush out of the reeds, its long legs dangling as its huge wings flapped like sails, clawing at the still air for height. Slowly it rose above the treetops, its legs now stretched out behind, before drifting gracefully away across the water.
Pete Norman

He shook out his blonde hair and peered through the wooden fence. There she was, growing more beautiful every day. Her beautiful complexion, flowing tresses and her lythe movement held him entranced. Will she never notice me, will I never kiss her.

Days passed, his pain increasing as she blossomed into a beautiful woman. He wasn’t in her class; he knew that but he adored her.

Oh no! The scythe fell. He was torn up. Bleeding from his roots, he fell through the air to land . . . by the side of his love. The dandelion wrapped his withered arms around the faded bloom of the beautiful but fading rose, on the compost heap!
Jenni Bowker

It seemed a ‘nice’ idea at the time. My friend George is quite the one for ‘nice’ ideas. Like the time he thought it would be ‘nice’ to offer to walk Wolf, Albert next door’s Alsatian. We ended up in the middle of the boating lake covered in pond weed. Albert omitted to tell us Wolf’s favourite game was chasing ducks!

Well, we were watching ‘Countryfile’ one Sunday evening when – and I should have recognised the signs – he started talking dreamily about ‘getting back to nature’. I think an hour gazing at fluffy lambs, apple orchards and cloudless, blue skies had gone to his head.

To cut a long story short there was no holding him after that. Two weeks later there we were on the open and very dusty road, walking boots laced up, broad brimmed hats at a jaunty angle and knapsacks on our backs. Fal, da, ree! Fal, da, rah!

The day started well as we tramped the winding lanes. George waxed lyrical every time a bird so much as tweeted its presence or a cow lowed plaintively from a nearby field. He was so taken with his bucolic surroundings he didn’t notice the ominous darkening of the sky. It was only when large drops of water began to bounce off the brims of our hats that he managed to take a breath and take stock of our predicament.

George, ever resourceful, said we should find somewhere to shelter until the ‘shower’ – his word not mine – abated. In the next field we saw an open-sided shed and headed for it. George’s enthusiasm didn’t seem to diminish even when the light shower became a heavier downpour. We sat on some bales of hay and were just settled when we heard a sort of snorting noise. A bit like someone trying to blow their nose and not succeeding. I turned slowly and across the field, which wasn’t, as we thought, empty, I saw a larger example of ‘nature’.

I interrupted George’s discourse on the joys of the great outdoors to tell him about our fellow occupant of the field. We slid slowly off the hay bale and moved quickly towards the fence we’d just climbed to get into the field. It definitely took less time to exit than enter. As we crashed to the ground on the other side of the fence we looked up and were met by the enormous head of a bull who seemed to be irritated that he’d not managed to catch and toss we two interlopers over the fence himself.

We decided that it would be ‘nicer’ to go home as we had gone as far ‘back to nature’ as we felt necessary. I’d like to think George has learned his lesson but whenever we watch ‘Countryfile’ he sometimes gets that faraway look in his eye. I just have to try to change the channel before he gets any more ‘nice’ ideas.
Marie Day