Guernsey

Cycling Green leafy lanes trundle by and I feel the caress of warmth on my face. Tingling smell of fresh sea air tickles my nostrils. Glorious cacophony of colour at a hedgeveg stall bombards my senses and I stop to pick fresh plump tomatoes. The crisp pound note rustles as it enters the money box. […]

Still Some claim the water sucksand gurgles asit celebratesits dance around the rocks –that liquid has theagency, while thestone, inured andthoughtless, merely borders life –observing action,like a patient ontoo manydrugs. But, slow the tempo, turn the dialdown until you think it pointsto zero. The waves vanish,the tides are a blue-grey blur,the diorite finds its voice,

Traditional Events Sarnia arts and craftsIn gazebos and in tentsMusic and danceTraditional eventsCommunity spirit where old friends meetLiberation Day party out on the streetLiberation Day Tea Dance and CavalcadeCelebrating the efforts that everybody madeOur North and South and West ShowThe Viaer MarcheGo! Go! Go!The Muratti and the SprintSand Racing and the Hill ClimbAll to be

High Tide Line After my emotional stormI stoop to examine the high tide line.Muscles tense knee to hipAs I pick over the flotsam and jetsam.Fingering and thinking. Lank weed tangles around smooth pebbles, waterworn;Rattling shells lifeless, deserted;Muck and tar and cast away leavings.Torn, ribboned, exposed and naked:My life’s recent edges. Close scrutiny shocks and fascinates.Running

Let the party commence What a time to remember Orkney.The island games are nearly upon us.So bring out your flags and enjoy the fun.They call us Guernsey donkeys that I won’t deny but hardworking and strong these qualities you can rely on.Let’s enjoy the moments of celebration and keep our good hearts.Friends will always be

Guernsey Generally thought by the British as Jersey,Unusually gifted with gardens of flowers,Encircled by beaches and lazy blue water,Respite from the heat of the work-weary hours.Naïve in the trusting of boxes on hedges,So secret the banks in their great wealth procuring,Encased in a time warp and tossed in the sea,Yet proud and enchanting and strangely

To Be An Islander The sea breathing,Is so intrinsically an islanders own, That the rhythm of their beating hearts,Waking or sleeping, Matches the oscillation of waves Breaking upon their shores, day and night.There is never silence.Not in any season.Not in the stillest of nights.Nor in the dead hours before dawnWhen death holds many a last