My thought for today

To accumulate immense wealth off the backs of your fellow man, for no other purpose than to hoard it, and by doing so, keeping your providers trapped and enslaved in relative, and in many cases, very real poverty, must surely be the most despicable of mankind's  more dubious traits?If we don't evolve beyond this, and all its associated shortcomings, then I feel
we are doomed to failure as a species. Full stop.

Please feel free to share.

A very trying day (and night)

Yesterday, I had a very disquieting day when, switching on my PC after a few days away, it refused to complete the boot and start-up process. No matter how many times I tried, it would fail - in a different place each time. Fortunately, I have a laptop as well, so I was able to Google for info on an appropriate course of action to take.

Now, I'm not a computer whizz-kid, but I did build this machine from bits, and I was dead chuffed that it ever worked in the first place. I can't remember exactly when I built it, but it must be getting on close to 10 years now, and I am aware that these things do have a finite life. I have been quite good at maintenance and computer housework, keeping both the physical side and the operational side of the machine clean to the best of my ability, and backing up files etc, thinking it would be an easy thing to restore it's functions and my files - of which there are many - in the event of catastrophic failure. So far, I have been very lucky in that, up until yesterday, I have never experienced the dreaded BSOD - Blue Screen of Death.

Anyway, I have poked, prodded, cajoled, sworn at, pleaded with, safe-moded, Googled, hoped, tried (again and again) started, re-started, re-re-started, switched off, unplugged, and then gone through the whole process again, and still the bloody thing would choose a different point in the start-up procedure to fail each time, giving me just enough hope that I might get as far as opening one or two necessary programs that would give me access to other stuff. I have run disk checks, and run Startup repairs, all to no avail. After working away at it well into the night, and getting nowhere, I gave up and switched off again. At this point, I was seriously thinking it was going to entail an operating system re-install to get this baby working again - not a task I was looking forward to, as it would entail loads of other program installs, and the ultimate loss of quite a few programs which came as time-limited freebies, so not available again without paying for them.

Up very early this morning, switched on, booted up, proceeded to start up, and went right through to completion, and runs like butter wouldn't melt in its mouth. My next problem is - DO I DARE TURN IT OFF? I'll have a few coffees before I even consider that one, but it will, of course, have to happen sometime.

Anyway - the whole point of this rant is that it has made me realise just how dependent I have become on having access to a computer, and how lucky I am to at least understand a minute amount about what makes them tick. I remember how much they terrified me the first time I started to use them, fearing that I would click on the wrong thing and bring everything crashing down round my ears. There is a whole language to learn while even using a computer, let alone the language required for understanding how they work.
Rather than make our lives easier as was forecast, I feel they have introduced so much more into our lives that our existence has become even more complicated. 
I still wouldn't be without one, but I think that my ageing faculties might be the deciding factor in that one - only time will tell. 

So... here it is - SEVENTY

Seventy years. It feels neither feasible, nor possible. I'm still in my 20s, surely? Where the hell has that time gone?
I'm not a great one for celebrating birthdays, but I feel that this three-score-and-ten is worthy of at least a backward over-the-shoulder glance - in gratitude, if nothing else.

I am grateful for all the people in my life - those that have come, those that have gone, those that have passed, those that have stayed, those that I'm just now getting to know, those that are as yet un-met, and unknown, and in more recent times, all the people I have spent time with on social media.  Many people scoff at social media, but I think I can honestly say that the many friends I have made on-line have all been true and honest friends. These are all people that have taken part in my life, whether the meeting was just brushing shoulders in passing, or deep friendship, or even deeper love.  You are all the people from whom I have learned; the ones who have given me experience, and have given my life meaning. I'm grateful to those who have loved me, supported me, and encouraged me - without your help, I would have been nothing. I hope I have given enough in return.
I have no natural progeny, but the children that have come into my life are exactly the kids I would have wished for, all grown to be beautiful people, and having their own beautiful kids. I love them all.

Without all these people, and the characters that they are in their own right, I feel my life would be quite shallow and meaningless. Thank you all!

I'm grateful too for all the things I have done in my life. I think it has not been an "ordinary" life. I have always had a thirst for knowledge - literally for as long as I can remember - but not in the way that, say, a scientist delves into a particular subject - deeper and deeper, but more in the way that a polymath desires to know everything, though I don't rate myself as such; there is just far too much to learn!

As a teen, I found it very difficult to settle to my chosen schooling, and then to any particular career, so in the first half of my working life, I had many and varied jobs ranging from the menial to the technical to the social - milkman to telephone engineer, smallholder to social worker, just a few examples. There were many more. It wasn't that I was work-shy - I had a good work ethic - I just didn't like to get bogged down with any one thing. Then I found basketmaking, or rather, it found me - more a philosophy than a job, but something I could do that fitted into my lifestyle, and manage to make a meagre living to boot. That has taken up the last 27 years of my life, although my fingers have finally had enough of the repetitive strains.

I have spent all of my adult life in "self-sufficiency" mode - renovating, building, making, and repairing almost everything - houses, cars, domestic machinery - anything -  though the latest technology is way beyond me. I did manage to assemble the PC I am at present typing on out of various components though, which pleased me no end.

While all this has been going on, I have taught myself to play several musical instruments - not well, but adequately, and the learning continues to this day. There is also in more recent years, photography, at which, it appears, I have a certain flair. There are still many things I would like to try, many things I would like to experience, but just as important to me is taking the time to watch the grass grow. I have learned to love a hammock, when the weather is fair.  There is just so much to learn, if we would only stand still for a few minutes to observe - or lay back even, and watch the clouds. It is so good for the soul - so good!

So yes - not a bad life. I have managed to get this far without damaging myself too much - no broken bones - though there were a couple of times I came very close to the edge of self-extinction, but I survived. I am still fit and able, for which I am daily grateful, but I can't deny that I'm on the downhill run now. I shall just have to keep my foot on the brake to make the journey last :)
Seventy is nothing to be feared! I feel fulfilled, and very content.
Onward! (albeit at a much slower pace :D )

©  Rob King - on my 70th birthday :)

Dawn

Silent silver moon, waning gibbous
presides over the cacophony
that is a thousand avian voices
greeting the new day as one.
Moments pass, sky so slowly changes hue
as still-hidden sun gently toasts the horizon
and worms, slugs, and beetles
resume their fearful exposure.

The innocent photographer

What happens when a friend goes looking for foxes

The fox-hunt

Sneaking through the old park gates
intent on photographs she said
not cognisant of local pastimes
trouble lies ahead

Parks the car, her quarry sighted
mounts her flash, and fires away
but she's not the only flasher
working there that day

Cars draw up and park alongside
windows dancing up and down
seems there are a lot of randy
dog-foxes in this town.

Slowly comes the understanding
all she sees is not OK
starts the car, escape intending
she is now the prey...

©Rob King 2018

New poem - first in a long while

In contrast to my previous post, we seem to be having a run of dull damp days again, which isn't very helpful with so much to do in the garden after a very wet and cold winter.

I need some sun

My bones are longing for the sun
to warm and penetrate my flesh
and ease my aching, swollen, joints
and make my heart feel young and fresh

My eyes are longing for the sun
to coat the world with golden light
to fill the woods with contrast colours,
lake reflections, diamond bright

My brow is longing for the sun
to change the colour of my skin
from winter white to golden brown
to indicate warm life within

My back is longing for the sun
to warm my soul and drive me on
and do the work the garden needs
to grow some food to live upon

My feet are longing for the sun
that some day in this year I'll feel
the warm sand in between my toes
A seaside day - now, there's a deal!

My life is longing for the sun
that I might in my hammock lie
beneath the dappled shade of trees
and quietly watch small clouds drift by...

©Rob King 2018

I wrote this several years ago and thought I had put it in my blog, but no. 
Anyway, it's pertinent to this beautiful day.

Crystal Clear

Just now
The heavens have a clarity I've seldom seen before
The air is perfect crystal, not a mote my eyes endure
To see it, feel it, breathe it; could I ever ask for more?
Such perfection in a day to be remembered.

Later
when the Summer grows, and turns the furnace on
and haze will shield the vista presently I gaze upon
I'll come back to day remembered and feel the sun that shone
allowing colours to be so vividly presented.

© Rob King  2012

A quiet hammock-nap

Having had a busy morning, I opted for a nap in the hammock after lunch. Tucked between a lilac and a large mahonia bush, and overlooked by climbing roses not yet in flower, but grasping thin air for more support, I lie there, sheltered from the cruel North-Easterly and it's wicked attempts to nullify Phoebe's yellow heat, my eyes are drawn to the tattered rags of the low cloud scudding across the cyan space, and am mesmerised. A small bird alights in the naked ash tree above my head, silhouetted, and mouth full of feed, impatient for me to remove myself, so it can feed its young. Far too impatient, and trying not to expose the nest site it decides to attempt a route from another direction, flits, and is hidden.
A small procession of swallows appears from the south, wheeling and churning, picking flies out of the sky as ever they do, before disappearing as rapidly as they came.
My gaze returns once more to the clouds, where my eye is captured by a movement - a buzzard, soaring, with a slow gyration, quartering the local grasslands for a lame or injured rabbit. Such eyes they have! he is so far up that his markings are indistinguishable, though I know him as a regular visitor. As he passes out of view, I spot his mate, following a similar route, and being somewhat bigger, her markings are a little more obvious. How many more people have spotted them, I wonder? Few in number, I'm sure.
A commotion!  A lone sparrowhawk fleetingly scythes the air across the garden, mobbed by several smaller birds, attempting to distract the express predator from the naive fledglings whose only thoughts are food, regardless of safety first.

Everything settles down again. The clouds unerringly drift and scud South-Westward on the breath of the cold wind.
I close my eyes, and think how lucky am I, to have seen so much in the space of so few minutes.

A cold North-Easter in Spring

Drawing back the curtains
I am dismayed to see
the grey blanket
of sullen cloud
that has assembled
to be ushered in
under cover of darkness
ahead of the ponderous
North-East breeze,
barely moving, but
sucking all the joy out of the
head-hung wisteria
making her hold her perfume
for yet another day.
Donning my togs
my energy I squander,
wander to the wood-shed
returning with logs and kindling
and rain-spots on my glasses
and once more
re-light the Rayburn.

A poem I wrote in 2014

Noise

His ears were filled with ambient noise
not his, but incidental
to the sounds of daily hand-to-mouth, of constant give and take
it seemed to him quite ceaseless, undiminished, incremental
and he longed for total silence, just to give his mind a break.
From the moment that his morning eyes
took in the world around him
his head would start to fill with sound, incongruous to his thought
like the rattle of a Gatling at commencement of a battle
and he couldn't shut the noise out, no matter how he fought.
He swore beneath his silent breath
not wishing an addition
to the chatter, natter, patter, clatter echoing in his brain
it weren't as if the sound was kind, a steady repetition
such as falling water, sighing wind, or even driven rain.
Oh no - these were man-made, every one
demanding that he listen
requiring that he be a part of other peoples lives
when what he really wanted was the chance to do some thinking
and not have his thoughts dismembered by others' noisy knives.
Thus it was, he found himself
in a glen between two rising walls
a glaciated, hanging valley high in Scotlands hills
where noise was Nature's own dominion, nothing more than whirring pinion,
shushing grasses, bubbling burn and quietly running rills.
He came across a Thinking Stone
and there he sat in reverie silent
taking in all manner that presented to his eyes
and hearing not another sound that man had made or uttered
he delighted in the silence
and deemed himself quite wise.


© Rob King 2014

Cannon-fodder

There is nothing left to feel

the mud and blood have sealed my eyes

there is nothing left to heal

even pain my mind defies

the whistling bombs and rattling guns

no longer frighten me to death

for Death is standing over me

arms folded, waiting my last breath.

To think that all I ever dreamed 

a life of love, and love of life

destroyed by powerful men who schemed

and used the likes of me in strife

They will never face such thoughts

as, smashed and shattered, I face now

The future will my bones expose

exhumed by shiny-breasted plough

and once again the shining sun

will warm my relics in the tilth 

and birds replace the booming gun

forgetting all this bloody filth.

© Rob King 11th November 2016

Unsettled

Sunset over Scarning Village

I've been feeling a bit troubled recently with all the political crap that I'm coming across. This puts my feelings into words.

Unsettled

The sun is bright, but has no warmth

the days are growing longer

Winter's truly done and gone

but I'm not growing stronger

I need to set the blood a-coursing

throughout my limbs so weary

but there's too much crap inside my head

and I sit here feeling teary

Is it me or is it them?

that cause me so much trouble

that make me feel that all is bad -

reduce my heart to rubble

It seems to be a daily fight

to find a happy thought

when the world around me isn't just,

and doing what it ought

I read the words and hear them said

and try to understand them

and assay to divine the truth

but find I can't command them

there's lie on lie, and lie returned

all words of propaganda

and liars thrive within the hive

paid out with a backhander

So if I say "the truth to tell"

I mean it as I find it

and cannot offer guarantees

to the truth that lies behind it

for I can only speak out loud

of truth as it's presented

but walls are built with bricks of lies

and with more lies cemented

© Rob King

Ode to the Rayburn

Ode to the Rayburn

Throughout the Summer you solid squat
an iron mass, doors numbering four
your heavy eyelids held tight closed
chrome eyelashed like some blinged-up whore.
Your brooding blackness fills the corner
lends it darkness, saps the light,
no comfort will I find within you
whether it be day or night
for should I chance to get too close
your skin will suck the heat from me
the needle on your gauge at zero
you slumber, and I let you be.
But come the Autumn you awaken
I brush you down and clean you out
surround you with fresh feed and fuel
make you feel less cool without
The ritual begins in earnest
paper first, then willow chips
and thicker sticks, all laid in lattice
tunnels where the hot flame licks.
Now logs to crush the embers down
and slowly make an ashen bed, 
so Ash goes in and shrinks to ash
while giving up its heat instead.
Quietly you start to sizzle
water in your boiler warms
spitting willow in the firebox
sparks contained will do no harm.
The needle on the gauge is lifting,
oven warming, hotplate too
I lift one eyelid, you respond
awakening with work to do.
Kettle filled I gently place it, 
but water on its underneath
spits a violent reaction
instant steam demands relief
I sit back and read awhile 
aware that you are gaining power
the kettle gently starts to sing
from nought to a hundred,
Half an hour!
Tonight, above your shielded hotplate
ironing will be hung to air
a silent job to last the night time
but you will neither know nor care.
So as the winter’s wicked tendrils
creep through gaps ‘tween door and floor
You become the silent heart
of welcome in our home once more.

© Rob King

Olivia Juliette

You cleave unto my wool-clad chest

as a starfish to a rock

with tiny perfect fingers clenched

and bootied feet a-splay

I watch you as you dream in sleep

of things you know-not-what

and caress your gossamer covered head

and hold you, while I may.

I kiss your head, and smell your skin

and taste the peace within you

Your tiny lungs take in a breath

and gently let it go

I watch your rib-cage rise and fall

so slight, it's barely moving

my giant hands hold you in place

but I don't think you know.

I wonder if there'll be a time

from deep within your memory

that you will get a feeling that

I kept you safe and warm

while you just lay there sleeping

and listening to my heartbeat

unworried and cocooned in love

protected from all harm.

For you, I wish a peaceful life

a life of constant loving

that you might give, and yet receive

all pleasure, without end

For holding you so close to me

I feel a bond between us

unknowingly, you give me love

my darling little friend.

In Memory of......

This photo by my friend and fellow photographer, Victoria Burns , inspired me to write a poem about the strange sight of a bouquet of roses on the frozen surface of a canal, somewhere in Scotland.

In Memory of......

A dozen yellow roses

neatly wrapped and cellophaned

greenery included

beautifully arranged

lying on the frozen surface

out of reach of probing hand 

carefully slid across the ice

by someone on dry land

They've been there quite a time now so that 

petals to the ice have stuck

and efforts at recovery

would need much more than luck

The clinging ice will not give up

despite the cold bright sun above

this symbol of remembrance

these glaze-wrapped flowers of love

The passer-by, her progress now

arrested by th'incongruous sight

of roses on an ice sheet

that were slid there in the night

She wonders what the reason could be

roses out of season would be

left here in this public place

to wither in the light.

Yellow rose for friendship

traditionally the florists say

so were they left in memory

when friendship went astray?

or is the feeling deeper still

did icy water friendship kill

and roses mark the horror

of a love tryst in decay?

The sweet juxtaposition 

of the bouquet over water

that as yet cannot engulf it

brings a feeling to her mind

of a moment held in timeless space

before the final resting place

where memories and souls commune

and life and death are kind.

©Rob King 2015


Many thanks to Victoria Burns for allowing me to use her photo.

Paradise

Where the rolling turquoise ocean
meets the sun-hot silver strand
where the breakers level out and touch the sky
there's a place that no-one's named yet
because no-one's ever been there
and gazed upon the scene and wondered why

If we never came to stand here
just to witness all there is
and to wonder at the sight before our eyes
is there just a tiny chance that we
could possibly imagine
it existed without us - are we that wise?

I'd like to think that somewhere
there's an island beach untrammelled
by the cankerous and offensive hand of man
but if you ever hear of it,
I beg you please just leave it
to exist without us, leave it if you can.

©Rob King

Hedgerow Oak

It was after seeing the following beautiful picture, taken by my friend Dawn Alford, that we were in conversation about the tree, and its significance, and she told me that sadly, the tree was no more. It has taken a little while, but I knew it had a story to tell .......

Photo - ©Dawn Alford

Just a humble hedgerow oak
she was never destined for greatness
- born too late
to be seen
by the Royal Navy surveyor
who, in another time
would have stripped her limbs
for the knees and ribs
of the man-of-war
and sawn her body
through-and-through
for planking and decking
- too young  to be noticed
by the local builder
who had laid low her parents
and aunts and uncles
for the cruck and hammer beams
of the manor house
where, grey with age
and bearing the mark
of adze, axe, and shave
they still reside
preserved in time
as an historic lesson
in building technique.
No - this young lady
had another part to play.
Throughout her life
she has stood as a landmark
- an addition to the sky-line
and a silent witness
to the comings and goings
of all about her
from the lowliest insect
foraging over the lichens on her branches
to the snuffle and jingle
of the ploughman's horse
with head in nose-bag
while the weary carter
eats his bait
in the shelter of the hedge
with his back against the tree
and out of the cutting wind
midway around the headlands.
She has observed the bitter folly of war
- even taken, unmoved, a lead ball
in her thick hide
though now buried deep
within her structure
the wound long-since healed
and forgotten.
She has heard the ringing laughter
of children
as they collected
acorns to feed dad's pigs
or helped with stooking
the itchy rustling sheaves
in the stubbled shortening days
of harvest.
She has heard the parish bells call to worship
more times
than she can bear to remember.
She has stood firm against wicked winter storms
sighing at the feeble attempts
to tear her limb from limb.
She has breathed the foul air
and made it fresh
that all may breathe again.
She has in all that time
never ventured an opinion
nor hurt nor betrayed
a living soul.
But yet,
as is the way with all living things
her time has come.

While in her very prime
disease struck
and leached the very life
out of her,
and slowly
while her bark decayed
and the boring beetles fed
and her fingers fell
never to be replaced
she became a skeleton
- the bare bones
of her former glory,
her sun-bleached naked arms
reaching up as if in supplication
against a timely backdrop
of the setting sun
only
to fall
one Sunday morning
to the raucous rasp
of the farmer's saw.
With a final creaking groan
she stumbled and succumbed
her limbs shattering
and spiking the sod
and her back broken
revealing
the scourge
that was within her.
No more a familiar landmark
but no more a liability
to passing traffic.

Her final act of kindness
was to warm the home
of the man
who laid her to rest
across the furrow.
-----------------
Little more than five paces
from the ring-marked solid table
that remains
a testament to her
one hundred and ninety four summers
one of her children
has his head above the hedge
spared by the slashing tractor
for being too close
to the road sign.
Young and slender
and of tender years
He peers out over the landscape
and breathes in
the spring air.

©Rob King

Luck of the draw

The wind fizzed through the seedless grass stalks as I lay there on the hillside. Not yet warm enough to remove my shirt and feel the sun on my skin, but certainly a promise of a better afternoon than yesterday. I had seen enough of cloudy days for a while, and was in need of a little warmth to restore my vitality.
Peering through my eyelashes, I could just make out the fine traces of the mares’ tail cirrus clouds appearing stationary in the sky, like sweeps of white paint from an almost dry brush across the cyan canvas. Feeling the warmth of the sun through my sweater, it was hard to imagine that those clouds were crystals of ice, hung out to dry on the jet-stream, travelling at high speed. It was only the fact that they were six miles above me that made them appear so still, unlike the occasional fluffy cumulus  that blocked out the sun for a few seconds as it chuntered past and over the hill.

Allowing my eyelids to close again, I took pleasure in the thought that I had chosen to use today as an opportunity to take off and spend time communing with nature, in the company of no-one, and to just let the day wash over me. It was pretty quiet out here – just the breeze to sing to me, with the occasional lark trilling overhead as I’d slowly climbed the hillside. I was in no hurry to get to the top. I had no need even to arrive there at all. This wasn’t a conquering climb. I was more interested in the journey than the destination, and that journey could take all day as far as I was concerned. If I thought I had discovered the right spot – this hollow out of the wind but facing the sun – I might not even go any further.
I had breakfasted like a king – a solid meal that would last me all day, so no need to carry anything with me either. This was really how I liked to travel, wearing just enough to keep me from the cold - not overburdened with unnecessary items “just in case” there was rain, or I got hungry or thirsty. Sometimes it was good to have to make the best of what you had – no insurance, just resourcefulness or resolution. Besides, I was no more than an hour or two from comfort in any direction – nothing much would harm me today.
Lying supine like this with my face to the sun was more than pleasant, it was positively heart-warming. It was almost impossible not to smile at my good fortune at the situation I had arrived in. I breathed deep and slowly, making each breath take a little longer than the last, stretching my lungs to their full extent, and exhaling until there was no breath left inside them. This really was just what I needed –  a complete change of air.
The feel of the turf beneath my back was pure delight – sufficiently yielding to allow my bones to rest easy, yet supportive enough to not create pressure on any particular part of my body. There wasn’t even any jutting stone or misplaced pebble to cause me discomfort. It was as if the earth had been moulded around my form, then sown with grass years earlier, in preparation for my arrival at this place, at this time.
The slope of the hillside was just sufficient to allow me to look straight across the valley to its southern side if I lifted my head slightly. The shadows were long on that side, as the sun was  not high enough in the sky to have long been shining over the ridge. I picked out a house high up the valley side, at the end of a road that ran like a shallow diagonal slash across the hillside, and I thought how unfortunate its inhabitants, to always look out on sunshine, but to live most of the year in shadow themselves. Not for me, that one.
Relaxing my neck, I closed my eyes again, and sank once more into my reverie.
Oh yes – this was the life for me, alright.

I’d had enough of people for a while. It wasn’t that they were uncaring, it was more that they were just too busy to see beyond their own manufactured misery; constantly chasing after the next style, the next acquisition, the next necessity, the next whatever, and getting into all sorts of debt to do it. The problem as I saw it was that they never actually appreciated anything that they already had, and didn’t take the time to learn to enjoy it before moving on to the next big thing.  Don’t get me wrong: I’m no Luddite – whose only desire is to stay put on this earth and never learn anything new, or do anything different. I’m as inquisitive as the next man – possibly even more so than him. It’s just that I find it difficult to get caught up in the perpetual tail-chasing that is modern social living.
I’ve always worked hard in my life, and enjoyed doing so – never thinking that the world owed me a living, and never coveting what I couldn’t afford. Of course, there have been times when I have wished that life could have been a little easier – times perhaps when I could have thrown caution to the wind and taken a little more  time out, but looking back over it all, I am satisfied that all has gone very well.
The sun continued to shine, and I felt myself drifting, with nothing more to think about than the smile on my face, and the knowledge that I could do this anytime I liked, now that my six numbers had come up.

The Chainsaw

He quietly cursed as he pulled on the starter rope. This was the third attempt to get the chainsaw started , and the second time he’d adjusted the carburettor settings. It was always the same when he’d had the machine apart for cleaning; it never liked to start first time. Putting his toe back in the handle grip, he gave the rope another sharp pull, and the saw spluttered – Excellent! Pushing in the choke lever, he pulled again, and the saw chugged into life. This was the dodgy bit. He mustn’t try revving it up yet, or it would die on him, and be the very devil to start again. The sound of the exhaust was almost like laughter, the saw teasing him, and urging him to pick it up and flick the trigger, but no, not yet – it wasn’t warm enough yet. Let it run another minute. The saw slowly settled back to a more regular chuckling noise, and he recognised from the changing tone that the engine was warming up now, and the playful pixie in the engine had given way to a more workmanlike wizard – one who was ready to magic its way through any log  that it was rested on.
He picked the saw up and tickled the trigger, the saw burst into life, and the chain whirred, flicking sticky chain-oil forward. Tweaking the trigger again, he immediately pushed the back of his wrist against the safety bar, which jumped forward, and the whirring chain stopped dead. It was said to stop in milliseconds, but a chain could still do a lot of damage, given the speed it was travelling at full tilt. Still, a few milliseconds was better than seconds in the event of a kick-back or snag,  or stumbling while working which is such an easy thing to do.
Thinking to try out the newly cleaned saw, he revved it and gently laid the chain against the bark at the butt end of a recently felled tree. The chain started to bite and a shower of chips streamed out from the underside of the blade, shooting out behind the saw off to his side. The cut felt good and even, each tooth of the chain cutting the same sized chip as the one before it, a smooth flow of minute slices which would make easy work of the log. Pushing the toothed dog at the front of the body into the bark, he pulled harder on the trigger and levered the saw to put more cutting pressure on the chain. The exhaust note deepened as the engine worked harder to take a deeper slice. This wasn’t necessary, as the saw would perform best if not under pressure, but this was a trial to see how the engine performed under pressure, and it passed with flying colours; no coughing or spluttering; the settings were just right for a change. There was nothing worse in his book than a saw spluttering or failing halfway through a felling cut, leaving him “out on a limb”, with little control over how the tree would behave until it was finally through.
He was pleased too that the newly sharpened chain was in excellent condition – he took great pride in his sharpening prowess. It had been the same with hand-saws – there were very few could sharpen and set a saw these days, very few who had even used a two handled cross-cut before, but that was how he had  started, and it was a fine introduction to learning how to “feel” trees, and just what was going on inside them. It just seemed to him that there was very little point in having an edge tool that didn’t have a sharp edge, be it a saw, axe, chisel, knife, plane or chainsaw. Sure, you could burn your way through a log with a blunt chain and a lot of brute force, but what was the point of that, when your saw could zip through a log like a hot knife through butter with the least effort on your part, and the greatest satisfaction of a job well done?

He knew that he’d never fell another tree. His forestry days were long over, and the Juggernaut logging machines had come to take the work from him. One man in a cab could fell, sned, cut to length and roughly stack a tree in a matter of seconds, and all without even having to lift his backside out of the seat.

Picking up the saw again, he gave the trigger a squirt, and turned, smiling, to the stack of logs he was to cut today.
All his cordwood was delivered these days on a truck, (all of it spewed out by the loggernaut machine) but nobody would ever deprive him of the pleasure of using the tool that had been an extension of his right hand for so much of his working life.


©Rob King 2014

The Internet

Since I've had access to the rest of the world via the internet - about ten years now - I've come to realise just what an amazing bunch of people there are living in this world.
People who connect, and are willing to share whatever it is they have in their lives, be it something very small and seemingly insignificant, or something blindingly life-changing. There are people from all walks of life, from all over the world, living in situations ranging from near poverty to having everything they need, doing all kinds of jobs, or voluntary work, or art, all with their own particular interests and passions, but the one thing they all have in common is sharing.

I feel very privileged to have "met" so many of these people, and to have shared friendship with them, even though I might never physically meet, touch, or talk to most of them. Even so, there is a bond between us all, like strings that connect us, and the more we give of ourselves, the more connections are made and strengthened.
I consider that I have friends in places and positions that I once never knew of, and every one of them teaches me a little more of their world every time we connect, and they learn a little more about me at the same time.
This connection is the remover of ignorance - the slayer of fear, and the unifying factor that should be in everybody's life, not just the lives of the chosen few.

The word love is used a lot among these friends of mine, and it has very special meaning for me, as it reminds me that we are all one, all of the same source, a part of the same universe.
I don't give a fig for religion - my personal belief is that religion is an artifice, a man made system that has been designed primarily to control, and I'll have no part of it. Let others believe as they will.
My one wish is that EVERYBODY could have the opportunities that the internet has given me - the chance to connect, without let or hindrance, to every other person in the world, and to share, and to love.

Hmmmm - that turned into a bit of a rant, didn't it?

I'll lighten up now with a pretty picture, and a poem from  2 years ago, all about love. :0)

First Date

We shared a bench for lunchtime

Miss Amanda Trott and I

she had a pot of salad,

And I had Grosvenor pie

I really liked her company

but couldn't help wonder why

She'd asked if she might share a bench 

with me.

The sun was very pleasant

neither too hot, nor too cool

and childrens voices cracked the air

down by the paddling pool

Amanda chatted easily so

I didn't feel a fool,

I just answered all her questions and 

we smiled

I could feel the threads between us

building layers like a rope

Her easy manner helped me,

made me feel that I could cope

and although I wasn't confident

It really gave me hope.

that we might do the same again

tomorrow

My watch relayed the message 

it was time for us to part

but I really felt attachment 

by these strings from heart to heart

so I blurted out the question

"Do you think that we could start

to see each other when we aren't 

here working?"

She looked at me quite kindly

and then she gave a wink

and she said "I'm doing nothing 

Sunday lunch-time - do you think

that if I gave you my phone number,

you could take me for a drink?"

and I just sat there with my eyes and mouth 

wide open.

Well, we couldn't leave the park through 

separate gates now, that was clear

although that was the way we entered 

when we first came here

so she took my arm,(the rope intact)

and I grinned from ear to ear,

and we walked back to work again

Together.

© Rob King