That Old Chestnut

Chestnut, Autumn, Chestnut Tree, Ripe, Brown, Prickly

Image by Karsten Paulick from Pixabay

How long had she been there – that old chestnut?  There was the scar from the November storm of 1822, even then she had been mature.  How many children had gathered conkers by her side?  For hers were winners sure, well formed and shiny. Her side had been pierced by heavy staples in 1902, cattle wire affixed to her side.  Even now, broken strands of rusting wire bite deep under her bark.  But this wire is not alone.  There is also the twisted shard of aluminium high in her flank, the only remnant of that Messerschmitt that’s journey ended back in ’41.  But now too, her time had come.  Diseased and frail, she is at the mercy of Council workers who care nothing of her noble past.  The tree was pulled down, and only the birds lamented over its dead body.


Saturday Mix – Unique Personality, 21 September 2019: The tree was pulled down, and the birds lamented over its dead body.



Complicated Contradictions


“Sorry I’m late,” Susan said.

“Love is never having to say you are sorry.  Well that’s what they say,” Joe said.

“But what does that really mean?” Susan asked.

“I guess it is about unconditional love.  If someone does something, even a terrible thing, those who love them will love them despite it.   It’s like they are forgiven before they ask, so it’s not necessary,” Joe explained.

“But just because someone is willing the bear hurt silently, and let it pass, doesn’t mean that the other person, if they are truly loving them back, doesn’t want to mend their feelings.”

“It’s like in the Bible,” Joe said. “The Prodigal Son.  He rips off his dad, then wastes everything, then he goes back to say he was unworthy to be a son.  But before he even gets a chance to give his prepared speech, his dad has come and hugged him and put clean robes and an a ring on him.  His dad loved him so much that he didn’t need to hear the apology.”

“Okay,” Susan retorted, “But he still went there with the expressed purpose to say he had failed.  So maybe you’re right, ‘Love means you don’t need to say sorry,’ but that’s not the same to say a person who loves should never feel sorry, or acknowledge regret.  Otherwise they will never grow.  Or worse still they might cause the hurt all over again.”

“You know,” Joe said.  “I think you are right, its about attitude not words.  I’m sorry I disagreed with you.”


Tale Weaver – #241 – Sorry

APawColypse Now


Google images

“A mission, any mission, and for my sins they gave me one,” Captain Houndard reflected.  It wasn’t his first tour in that war-torn land, but when it was over he would never want to return.

The old warhound, Colonel Kurtz-rover had gone mad up river, and everyone knows a mad dog needs to be put down.  Houndard’s mission was to take a Navy patrol boat to the last known position of the rabid officer and to eliminate the threat.

It had been a costly journey almost all of his accompanying pack had been killed, but now Houndard was making his way through dark waters to complete his task.

Kurtz-rover awaited his fate.  He did not seek clemency, nor fight the inevitable, he merely repeated an apt summary of the whole affair:

“The horror, the horror.”


Photo Challenge #281

FOWC with Fandango — Clemency

Martin Sheen Swamp GIF




Miscellaneous Prompted Micro Poems 14


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Cascading Waters
Nature’s Power Manifest
Mighty Pool-wards Plunge

Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, August 28th 2019, waterfall

three line tales, week 187: two buddhist monks at a coffee shop

photo by Manthan Gupta via Unsplash

“Take only that which is freely given,” the precept’s clear you see.

So we may be here for quite a while,

Till someone brings us tea.

Three Line Tales, Week 187 29 Aug 19

Photo credit: ©

She waits impatiently
The breeze fresh upon her brow
When shall her love return?
She craves caresses even now.

Inspiration Call: Micropoetry Monday 9 Sep 19




Luna and Lupa


Found on

Arat shivered at the sound of the wolf howls in the distance.

“Grandfather,” she queried. “Are we in danger?”

“No Little One,” the old Shaman replied.  “They are howling at the moon.”

“Why do they do that?” the lass asked.

Long ago, the first wolf, Lupa roamed the wilds on his own.  He was lonely and sad, and when the sun set each day he was plunged in darkness, and his loneliness became all the greater in the gloom.   He longed for companionship and in his desperation, he concocted a plan.  He would hide on the edge of the western horizon and await the ending of the day.  Then when the great Sola, the sun,  was at her weakest and also her nearest to the Earth, he would suck in her brightness into his mighty lungs.  Once darkness came he would breath out her light, so he would have a companion in the darkness. Which is exactly what he did.

“What happened,” the girl asked intrigued.

When darkness fell, Lupa ran to the eastern horizon and let out his breath with a mighty howl,  As he did, the diminished light of Sola raced into the sky trying to rejoin the rest of her.  But as Sola had already passed beyond the Sky-boundary to the west, the light captured by Lupa could only chase after the rest of her.  

The lesser light became panicked and frustrated.  It was then that Lupa spoke.

“Why are you rushing away so?  Why not slow down and enjoy my company?” the great wolf asked.

“But I must catch up with my body,” the light responded.

“Why? When you are so beautiful yourself?” the wolf complemented.

 The light slowed, and thought about the comment.

“But I must return,” she finally said, though the flattery had affected her deeply.

“If you must, you must,” Lupa responded. “But I for one would will miss your splendid silver sheen.  Oh, it is so much more pleasant that Sola’s harsh brightness.”

The light paused yet again.  It was torn by both the desire to return to Sola and to have glory of her own.

“I hope we meet again sometime,” the wolf said with feigned sadness and turned to pad into the forest.

“Wait,” said the light.  “I think I might tarry a little while.”

Lupa smiled to himself.  He knew then he had found a companion for the night.  

“I am Lupa,” he at last said. “And how shall I address your beautiful self?”

The light thought for a moment then said, “Luna, my name is Luna.”

“And that Granddaughter, was the beginning of the great friendship.  The wolves to this day howl to welcome Luna upon her return.”

The girl smiled and stretched out on her blanket and looked up at the moon.  In her mind she let out a howl. Welcome back Luna.  She then rolled over and fell fast asleep.


Photo Challenge #280

Flos Potentia

Image result for medieval nurse

image: schoolofnursinghub

Angard lay doubled over in the bed.  Sweat glistened on his brow, and he moaned in agony.

“I think I am actually going to die this time,” the mighty warrior said.

“We shall see,” Angatha said placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

She could see the multiple battle scars across his sturdy frame.  How many times has this man known the pain of sword or arrow? she wondered.  Yet despite this history, he now lay almost inconsolable.

Angatha’s sister, Benora approached the bed and held a sweetened elixir to the champion’s lips.  He sipped it slowly, and closed his eyes.  Both sisters rubbed his shoulders and said almost in unison, “flos potentia.”

Within minutes the warrior opened his eyes and stretched.

“I feel so much better,” he announced. “What was that spell you uttered?” he asked.

“Spell?  There was no spell,” Benora said matter of factly.

“How am I healed then?” he challenged.

“The flowers, stupid.  There was chamomile in the tea,” Angatha mocked. “You ate too much mutton again, you idiot.”

Both of the sisters looked down at their brother and just shook their heads.




Tale Weaver – #239 – Flowers – 6th September

The Site(ting)


Tom Blachford

“It was a stroke of genius to put the old observation dome from the World’s Fair on the hilltop near Devil’s Tower,” the chief executive said.  “Shame it’s such a climb to get to it.”

“Yes Sir, your idea is brilliant,” his sycophantic assistant agreed.

“What do you thing of it, Tracy?” the CEO asked his secretary, who was just then taking her high heeled “work shoes” from her bag in preparation of removing her hiking boots which clashed terribly with her dress.

“It is amazing, Mr. Carmichael,” she said with feigned enthusiasm.

The three then climbed the stairs into the structure to have a look around.

“What a view!” the CEO said pleased with his efforts.  It was in his opinion a validation of his keen business sense that he could buy a disused 1950s fair attraction for a pittance, and then set it up to cash in on the Close Encounters connection.  After all look how mad everyone was going over the whole Area 51 thing.

“The workmen have done a terrific job, Sir,” the aide said.  “For a sixty year old building it doesn’t seem to have any wear, and these furnishing are really comfortable.  Sir, you really have thought of everything.  It’s more that a viewing platform, look there is even a mini kitchen.”

“Kitchen?” the executive queried.

“Yes, look right over there,” the aide said pointing.

“Tracy, is that on the plans?” he asked.

The secretary pulled a folder from her satchel and began to flip through it.  “No Sir,” she said hesitantly.  “In fact, all this furniture was only supposed to be benches.”

“How much did this cost then?” he challenged.

She scrunched her face as she looked at the next page. “Sir,” she said uneasily. “It – it was also supposed to be red, and on that hill over there,” she said pointing through a porthole at a red disk among the trees on a nearby hill.

Just then the door shut, and the structure began to vibrate as a whirring sound filled their ears.


Photo Challenge #279

Roadside Wonder

imageedit_3_3280856855 (2).jpg

Living in East Anglia surrounded by fenland, and slow moving watercourses making their final approaches to the sea, we do not have many occasions when we can see the power of falling water.

Our youngest attended university in Lampeter in Wales, and our several journeys at the beginning or end of term-time however gave us ample opportunity to witness waterfalls.  Some of these natural water features are small with their plunging waters dancing and splashing upon the exposed rock, while other are mighty churning affairs that thunder and roar as the white foam and spray highlight their power.

In the face of these, and fr a great excuse to break up a long drive, we would find a nearby viewing place and enjoy the spectacle.

Cascading Waters
Nature’s Power Manifest
Mighty Pool-wards Plunge


Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, August 28th 2019, waterfall

Miscellaneous Prompted Micro Poems 13

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Padre – the chaplain

Observant through life rambles

Enlightening flock

Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, August 14th 2019

three line tales, week 185: numbers

photo by Leon Bublitz via Unsplash

Peace, like glass panes broken. All hope decayed
A whole world now frightened – dismayed
With the launch codes now displayed

Three Line Tales, Week 185  15 Aug 19

three line tales, week 186: a girl looking at ponies and horses

photo by Melanie Dretvic via Unsplash

“Little one, you seem so small, But of fear there is no need.
On my back you hold the rein, and I will take your lead.”
And thus encouraged – to saddle she went, mounting the noble steed.

Three Line Tales, Week 186 22 Aug 19


Vintage wine – vintage cars

Things improved with age

Why then when you say “a vintage wife”

She responds with outright rage?

Weekend Writing Prompt #120 – Vintage 24 Aug 19









Document, Agreement, Documents, Sign

Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay 

I really couldn’t see what the issue was.  However, our lawyer said that our will might be contested unless we made some modifications.  It seems that even though we mentioned all of the children, and even some of the ungrateful in-laws in our last testament, there might be reason for some to be against our will.

Personally I liked what we had written.  Each aspect seemed to fit the personality of the proposed recipient.   Take our granddaughter, Lilly for instance.  She would spend long summers staying over at ours, and lounge about sun-bathing in the garden.   She really seemed to enjoy it, yet she never lifted a finger to help with the gardening, much less even carry her own used dishes back into the house.  So what would be more natural than to leave her all of the weeds in our will?

David, our son-in-law, made no secret that he coveted our china.  Such was his obsession with china, that I made it a point of collecting over forty take-away menus from various oriental restaurants to leave to him.  Well, it might give him some insights into Chinese tableware.

As for the house, and adjoining properties, I trust that the local animal rescue charity can make good use of them.


Tale Weaver – #237 – 22nd August – Weeds

FOWC with Fandango — Written

Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: Against Our Will