CRAWLING

Crawling slowly on the mossy lawn

Ratty waited til the birds had flown

Alert with eyes darting this way and that

Watching and listening for the house cat

Looking hungrily for some food

In order to feed his growing brood

Nervously seeking the fallen seeds

Grabbing nuts from amongst the weeds

Barbara C

This Land is My Land 

 Sid bent down and yanked up a stray weed that had dared to next to his prize Dahlias.

"Dratted thing," he grumbled. " But I've got you now you little blighter."

He threw the weed onto the path and crunched the life out of it with his size 12 wellies then picked it up and threw it into the waiting rubbish sack. Carefully he checked the soil to ensure that non of the roots were left to contaminate his Dahlia Harvest Moons, his Magic Moments, or his American Beauties. For good measure he gave the square of soil a quick spray of 'Weed Out. ' Then, feeling very pleased with himself, stood up, purveyed his garden glorious, nodded his head sagely, and rubbed his aching back. The sky was darkening so Sid decided to call it a day. 

"A cup of tea and a good sleep - that's what I need," he said; and without looking back headed off towards the kitchen.

By ten o'clock, Sid was tucked up in bed and sleeping the sleep of the just. At two o'clock he stirred, having heard a noise coming from the garden. Being a curious sort, Sid raised himself from his bed and peeked outside. At first, everything seemed as it should be, but then he spotted a slight movement by the path and opened the window to get a better look. Twinkle, the white demon cat from next door skidded across the lawn, knocking over a watering can in its wake. It let out a piercing screech.

"Damn moggies, should be kept inside at night." he muttered angrily. "It comes to something when a man can't get any sleep because of thundering cats cavorting through the neighbourhood." Sid returned to his bed.

An hour later he woke once more. This time it was to answer a call of nature. He padded across the room; his once warm feet now chilled to the marrow inside his cold wooden clogs.

"One of these days I'm going to get an inside loo," he chuntered. "At seventy-four, a bloke like me deserves a few comforts."  Sid made his way to the bedroom door, turned the knob and pulled - but the door would not open. He tried again and again but the result was the same. Determined not to be beaten by a mere door, he retrieved his suede leather gloves from the wardrobe shelf and pulled them on. He then planted his feet on the skirting board, firmly grasped the doorknob between his now suede clad hands, and pulled for all he was worth. Initially the door eased slightly, but then, as if invisible hands on the other side of the door had other ideas, it shuddered and noisily slammed too.  Sid eyed the door contemptuously. He straightened, and like a scorpion raising its sting, kicked the door in frustration. "You won't beat me you confounded thing." he said, cracking his knuckles for effect. " I've fought in two wars, and I'm made of sterner stuff than a pesky bedroom door." He grasped the doorknob firmly and with all the strength he could muster, turned the knob and heaved, until the veins in his head pulsed purple with the effort. The door remained resolutely shut.

Sweat began to stream down Sid's face. His chest suddenly tightened, and a searing pain shot through his body. He stumbled backwards towards the bed and fell into the safety of its waiting arms. Holding tightly to his nightshirt, he lay there in the quiet gloom of his bedroom, gasping, as a pain pulsed irregularly through his chest. He glanced over at the door and swore vociferously. It was then that he noticed, or thought he noticed, something creeping underneath it. He rubbed his eyes, not truly believing what he saw. There, making its way under the stubbornly unyielding door, and creeping purposely towards him, was a myriad of curly, green tendrils.

 "Bryonia Alba, that's all I need, a poisonous, god forsaken weed in my house," he said, spitting out the words contemptuously. He watched as it crept insidiously nearer and nearer. Instinctively, Sid knew that the plant had come to reap its revenge and sensed that it meant business. His life was assuredly in extreme danger.

The tendrils branched outwards, and deceptively innocent looking heart shaped leaves sprang into life. But this was no angelic greenery, for inch by murderous inch it squirmed its way towards him. Sid did his best to ease himself off the bed but the deep tightening ache in his body, and the painful spasms in his chest, made movement seem impossible.

"Come on Sidney Cavendish," he whispered encouragingly to himself. "There's no choice, you've simply got to move." He looked towards the window. It was still open from the cat incident. He knew that somehow, he must get to it, for it was his only chance of escape. Once there, he could yell for help, or, if that failed, he could attempt to climb down into the garden using the ivy clad trellis. Sid prepared himself for one last gargantuan effort. If he did not make it to the window, he knew he would most certainly die, smothered in the plants revengeful, lush green tentacles. "Not a pleasant way to spend your last moments on earth," he thought.

Sid glanced again at the Bryony plant. It was almost at the corner of his bed.

“I will not die at the hands of a filthy, good-for-nothing weed and that's that,” he groaned.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself physically and mentally for this last-ditch attempt at escape. Sid grimaced and let out a torturous cry as he inched his way slowly up the bed. The pain was almost unbearable.

When at last he was sat upright, he lifted his legs over the far edge of the bed and slid unceremoniously onto the floor. 

Sid unravelled his aching body and pulled himself towards the open window. He grabbed hold of the curtain, hauled himself upright and leant out of the window. "Help me! help me! " He yelled. "For God’s sake, if there's anyone out there - please help me.  Anxiously, he looked out at the neighbouring gardens, hoping against hope that someone just might be about at this late hour. There was no reply.

The Bryonia Alba was getting ominously nearer. It had sensed Sid’s new position and was now making its way relentlessly towards him. Sid could do nothing but try to edge away from the death seeking marauder. Another searing pain suddenly exploded in his chest, and as it did so, the tendrils began to make their way along his feet and up his legs. He let out a terrifying scream and tried to wrench off the offending tendrils, but the plant was not to be denied its revenge. As it slowly curled its way upwards towards Sid's chest, his foot slipped on the linoleum floor, and he toppled headfirst, out of the window… He did not survive.

He was found the following day by Dave Garrett, the meals on wheels driver. When Sid did not answer the door, Dave decided to check the garden. He found Sid spread eagled on the ground; a look of abject terror painted on his ashen face.

Two weeks later there was a simple ceremony for Sid Cavendish at the local crematorium. There were no family present - for he had none. A few neighbours turned up together with a few committee members from the Shawhurst Gardening Club. Matt Turner, the chairman, hosted a small and somewhat sombre wake.

"He was a curmudgeonly old bugger," said Matt " but you can't deny he was a fine gardener."

"So! What's happening to the house then?" enquired Laura.

“I suppose that eventually it'll be sold," said Matt frowning.

"Ooh!” said Laura. “I must tell my friend Jenny; she's been looking for a house closer to her mum, and I know she'd really enjoy doing up an old property. "

"Well! There’s no denying, that given a bit of hard work it'd make a good family home. It'll need modernizing of course and she'd need to install an inside loo and bathroom, but at least she wouldn't have much to do outside. The Kew gardens of Oxwhich we called it. And, amongst the other glorious plants in the garden, Sid grew some gorgeous Dahlias."

Matt paused. " But if she does decide to buy it, tell her to get some strong weed killer. I understand that one small part of the garden is now infested with Bryonia Alba which spreads like wildfire and, believe me… it’s a real killer of a weed. "

Ann D

Crawling Haikus

Pale sunlight beckons
And crawling things awaken
A morning's rebirth

A dew-capped meadow
Leaf buds open like eyelids
Spider webs sparkle

Jo B

CRAWLING

As dawn breaks

our journey, curiously, is delayed;

there in our path saunter a family of zebra.

Our engine is turned off;

tolerance and calm prevail.

A moment gifted to marvel at the rising sun.

The stallion corrals his harem and foals with care

until he is ready to steer them onto the grassland.

We move slowly through this place of tranquillity

and then, like a rhino our powerful vehicle

is driven with surprising speed and agility through the bushveld.

We swerve round bends on the red dirt track

and downwards, through a river.

The engine sighs as we climb the other side

and with another explosive blast we move onwards.

The armour of the vehicle protects us

as we skim through the vegetation that is in our path.

Without warning there is a change in the air

The exertion is over, our pace eases

We are left breathless,

We have entered the land of the lion.

Slowly we crawl forward, not from weariness

but with reverence.

We have arrived.

In the hush of dawn

as the sun’s warmth filters through, the lion stirs.

A great unhurried rising of muscle,

he shakes his glorious mane and yawns.

His eyes scan what lies before.

Beside him the lioness slowly, half dreaming

Lifts her head and listens.

She nuzzles her cubs and

reluctantly they open their sleepy eyes.

A new day has dawned 

Together they rise, the lion, the lioness and two small cubs

And step into this new morning.

Ruth L.