This year, two of the members of Crichton Writers sadly passed away. Cathie Forbes and Isobel Gibson. As a fairly new member of the group , I had little contact with Cathie, but knew Isobel quite well.
We held a bring-and-share lunch retrospective in my garden in June. Sadly the weather did not provide the sunshine we had hoped for and so we ate and drank and read from their works indoors. It also gave an opportunity for new members to get to know us and by all accounts it was a fitting and enjoyable occasion.
Here are 2 short pieces written by Cathie and Isobel.
My Home. Cathie Forbes
In winter the house fights the elements
Bricks cold, rafters bare, floor naked
In the breaking dawn the wind blows
Windows creak in the icy morning
They gleam and sparkle
Inside, the stove is being lit
Aromas of burning wood fill the air
On the warming stove porridge burbling
The house warms, heat flows into the freezing walls
Pungent smells of bacon and egg
Lure the cat and dog into the kitchen
Bedraggled birds shiver and peck the sills
Magically crumbs appear.
Memoir By a Whiskey Drinker. Isobel Gibson
When I was four I was ill with a bad cold and coughed and coughed. Cough mixture was not easily obtained in gatehouse of Fleet in 1944 because there was a war on. My mother diluted whisky and sugar in warm water.
She was sure I would dislike it. 'It's good for you,' she said nervously.
I was suspicious and sure it would taste nasty. One sip and I gulped down the rest of it.
'That's good,' I said and asked for more.
It was fourteen years before I tasted whisky again. My mother saw to that.
I wrote a short poem about Isobel
I always saw you dressed in blue,
soft cotton top echoed summer skies,
flowery, swirly skirt perfect for a polka
and sensible sandals.
Your hair band tried in vain to control abundant curls.
Never meek, you brought a joyous breeze
with a hint of mischief in your eyes.
We will miss both of you greatly.
#crichtonwriters #retrospective #amwriting