The three children huddled together by the living room door.

‘Where’s mum?’ asked Jake accusingly.

‘She’s in hospital having her appendix whipped out,’ said Granny. ‘Or she should be if the doctor’s got any sense. They left it too late with Philip. His appendix blew up inside him like a balloon; all filled with nasty toxic green gunge. It blew up so big that it burst and poisoned him from the inside.’

Elsie started to cry.

‘Mummy’s going to die,’ she sobbed.

‘Oh shush,’ said Granny. ‘She’s probably had it whipped out already and it’s probably sitting in a jar beside her bed like a funny pink pickled onion.’

Angus looked as though he was going to be sick.

‘Have you packed your things?’ Granny said. ‘We need to go before it gets too late. Come on. Come on. Quick quick.

The children didn’t move.

‘Come on, come on,’ Granny said again.

She herded them out of the living room into the hall, prodding them gently in the backs. Up and get what you need. I’ll help you, Elsie.’

This is a poem by my father, Jack Elwin. He was told the story by an old Portesham villager who said that this really happened during World War II.

A Legend of Black Down by Jack Elwin

If you're up on Black Down
An' feel a creepy chill
It may be just a passing bug
Is making you seem ill.

But there's another reason
To feel something's odd
Jus' think what may be buried
Beneath the grassy sod.

'Twas in the War, the Yankees
Were all around these parts,
And parts of them are still around,
And not just in our hearts.

Them soldiers had a hospital,
'Twas up on Black Down here,
And lots of wounded Yankees
Were brought for treatment there.

The surgeons, they were busy,
They chopped off legs and arms
And buried them on Black Down
Wrapped up in old pyjarms.

The rest of them departed
For France or USA,
But bits of Yanks are still there,
And there they've got to stay.

So if you're out on Black Down
And don't feel over-brave
It may be bits of Yankees
Are turning in their graves.

I cannot decide if I am angry or
Just want to press my face into my pillow and sob
Or just want not to think of it.

Sometimes it is easy.
You seem to take it so well
Your no-longer strength.

I see your kind sweet bright eyes,
Your smile.
You beat me at Scrabble by seventy points the other day.

But there was anger underneath your No
When I offered you my arm
To the kitchen.

In early Spring
When I visited you then
When I still lived far away
There was no outward sign.
Perhaps it had lurked since last summer
When you first fell, first dragged your foot.
It waited.

A photo of you
In my head.
March.
Still tall.
Now we are almost eye to eye.

Each time I see you now.
Each week –

I gazed out of the window just then
The sun has already set
The clouds are
Iron grey against the pale winter sky.
The light fades imperceptibly until suddenly you see that it is dark outside.
It hardly needs to be said.

I looked it up,
Clicking link to link
A Tarzan swinging from
Electronic vine to vine.

It could be what I found.
I’m sure it is a something like it.
Not Parkinson’s.
My mother says
They ruled that out.

If it has to be a something
I hope it is this thing that I have found.
It said it only affects the mind
In twenty percent of cases.

There is an eighty percent chance we’ll keep you till you go.
It said they sometimes just go to sleep one day
And don’t wake up.

I hope it’s that.
I hope that one is it.

Autumn
Thin morning light grown suddenly sharp
The shadow of the garden chair blinks into life
Clear lines, depth
It is solid
Itself a chair
Till a wide band of white cloud
Edging past the high trees obscures the sun
A moment the shadow chair hesitates
Then it acquiesces
Links seamlessly with cloud
Obediently taking leave of dull grey pavings

A moment missed
The indifferent hum of distant traffic
Children play
No after-memory
I fade into the shadow
Sinking silent
Inconsequential as the chair
Waiting for the sun to return

The pool's skin glistens
Quivering with vibrant lights
Dusted with tree debris

Stretch between cool sheets
And will the moment into
Eternal dreamtime

Bones and flesh shrivel
Beneath the carved stone effigy
A life/death quandary

Dense beauties screech and
Toss their hair extensions like
Urban parakeets

Sights flash before me
Exploding sparks that cloud
My blue sky thinking

Vertigo - I think
I would soar like a seagull
But I would be lost

Snow on my doorstep
Right now it feels eternal
Chip away the rest

It’s just a guide, he
Said, apologetically
Ten blessings per year

Coalition rule
To some it stinks of glory
This rich strand of filth

Where once there were words
He leaves a lacklustre pause
A hesitation

I slip into night
Something of the underworld
Waits at dark dream’s gate

Butter wouldn’t melt
She wears her heart on a chain
Writer of close lines

I stand alone and
Listen to winding rhythms
Of the forest waltz

Heart seldom lifted
But he opened hers like
A many-folded rose

His little fist curls
The size and shape of a plum
It kisses my smile

She drapes her hunger
Under silver-screen glamour
Thin is deified

Fuchsia, Anenome, Delphinium, Iris, Poppy and Hairbell

You convinced me
Fool, me
You helped me halfway there  
I turn away
You did me much good
Much harm
It doesn’t quite add up

Your truth is liquid through my fingers
You tell me things that lie
But my knowledge is deception
So I cannot ask you outright
They tug like whispers
Crush and bruise
Poison what felt pure

I have been dabbling in collage lately. I'm really pleased with the results... NB More of my art is here http://bascetti.posterous.com/