Just a Thought

Cycling home on my red Cannondale racing bike, at least the bike frame said “Racing”, as I struggled into the headwind, a thought hit me and it wouldn’t go away.
It was the kind of thought which seemed so clear as I pushed on the pedals but now I sit and push on the computer keys it seems somehow incomplete…
We are the bole of the tree of life, my wife and I. Our roots were nourished by the fertile soil of our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents, who gave us values and standards and love and our branches are surrounded by the burgeoning spring leaves of our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
We are the trunk that links the past to the future.
We are the guardians of the past, who pass on family messages, stories, traits, values and mores in an uncertain world to the coming generations.
We are the trunk of a bountiful tree, a healthy and still growing tree, but we know when the time comes another tree will replace ours just as we replaced those trees which grew before us.
Just a thought.

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A most disturbing image – a dead child on a Turkish beach

We are used to beaches being happy places, sandy havens of fun amid gentle waves on hot sunny days, places where children play with sand and spades and splash in the sea.

Not so on a Turkish beach last week as a dead Syrian boy, Aylan Kurdi, aged just three, lay face down on the wet sand at the water’s edge. In another picture a grim faced policeman in a green beret and short sleeved khaki shirt carried the little bundle gently, carefully, as if it were alive to his final sanctuary.

So sad, so moving.

We are all humans, even David Cameron changed his policy on refugees as a result, a small gesture to the tragic image.

It got me to thinking about The Power of Pictures and Words

Yet even better is Brian Smith’s (SEH 1965) contribution in the form of a Christmas carol, sung to theĀ  Kirkpatrick’s 1895 tune for “Away in a manger”.

Away from his mother , just stones for his bed
The three -year-old Aylan lies on a beach, dead.
The stars in the bright sky look down where he lies
A drowned refugee boy attracting the flies.

A camera is waiting , the media awake:
This poor little Syrian no percentage will take.
A scoop for the papers, more drama for Sky —
They’ll stay by his side till the deadline is nigh.

Remember his family. I ask you to keep
Their pain in your memory whenever you weep.
Bless all these dear children in our tender care
And bring them to Europe to live with us here.

Beating the Bounds at Haverfordwest

beating the bounds_cleddauAn old tradition preserved.

Wonderful sunny evening down by the Bristol Trader in Quay Street with the Cleddau at its highest. A dozen boats arrive to help the Mayor beat the bounds….

Ilya Repin caught it just right.
It looked like the crowd at Kursk, at once both well-dressed and tattered, haughty and humble, ugly and handsome, limp and athletic, heads held high and others downward looking in slight embarrassment. A young man on stilts with a long bamboo pole, which he tapped repeatedly on the ground both for stability and attention, wore a brown frock coat and a three-corned hat…. Continue reading “Beating the Bounds at Haverfordwest”