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Je voudrais des timbres, s'il vous plait

I've always been better at French in my head - I can make a good stab at understanding it, and can form a coherent conversation right up until the time it comes to actually open my mouth.  At this point all communication seems to break down.  This hasn't been helped by the attitude of certain individuals I've met on my travels!  Je voudrais des timbres, s'il vous plait My hesitant French teeters on high heels Into a sudden lull at the post office.  "Quoi?" shrugs itself out of the bored cashier, Reluctant to keep my words company.  I repeat the phrase, with even less confidence, And it ricks its ankle in shame.  "Pour Angletterre?" I take a small step forward, Panicked at the distance opening up between us.  "Oh, English! Tenez." And just like that,  Without any need to click my heels, I vanish.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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What are you doing, Granny?

I love the peace and quiet of a relaxing holiday, but always miss my grandchildren. Having said that, they take a bit of getting used to when I get back!  What are you doing, Granny?  Just let me sit for five minutes to do this sudoku!  I'm taking time out from the noise, the chaos Of much loved grandchildren. The same grandchildren, that for four straight weeks I've thought about fondly, bragged about, Bought puffin-patterned socks for, Picked special stones up off the ground for, Was so pleased to see, a few short hours ago.  Just give me space To fill in nine-numbered boxes, Restore order to my thoughts, And I'll be back - with a smile And a hug all round.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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On the bank

Phil is doing well at the fishing festival, despite the downpours today.  As luck would have it, his peg was 20 yards from where I was sitting outside the caravan when it came time for his catch to be weighed in.   On the Bank voices drift over the hedge: friendly rivalries fuel the banter, soften the reckoning of the scales.  each net hauled from the lake offered up for judgement: "two hundred, easy". enough to win the section, maybe win the lake; enough to move him up the league, to win the approbation of the crowd. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
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The wind is a fractious child

We're in the Midlands at a fishing festival.  At least, my husband is at the festival. I'm enjoying the warmth of late summer, reading, writing, sharing poems.   The wind chases across the surface of the lake, Dances through the forgiving willows' branches, Lifts the corner of my page, Steals the warmth from my skin.  The wind is a fractious child, Demanding full attention Before moving on to the next thing.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
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Shetland

Our final stop on the Iceland cruise was Lerwick in the Shetland Isles.  I was keen to explore these islands, made familiar from watching the TV series Shetland, and took the obligatory photo of the house where Jimmy Perez lives. But sadly, Douglas Henshall was nowhere to be seen.   Shetland I thank this old fisherman's family For setting a memorial bench at Eshaness, Where I rest, whipped by a wind Screaming fresh off the Atlantic, Watching kittiwakes ride its currents Above iron-stained sea stacks, And lulled by the music of the sea.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
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Iceland

I loved the sparse emptiness of the Icelandic landscape, its dramatic but somehow understated beauty. Iceland Cottongrass blows in the wind that scours The flatlands edging the coast.  Sheer basalt cliffs rear, black on green, Glacier melt rivers leap abruptly in their fall, A grey asphalt ribbon unwinds through town Past metal-roofed houses hunkered low, Turning their backs to the drama, Towards the sustaining sea.   © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
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Ice melt

On our Icelandic holiday we visited the Langjokull glacier, and actually got the chance to walk on the ice.  It's 200 metres thick, but last winter didn't bring the usual snow and there are concerns about climate change shrinking it.  Ice Melt Through vast flatlands of moss-covered lava, Past the mountains of Mordor, The monster truck trundles onto black-flecked ice;  No pristine alpine glacier, this, Its surface laced with volcanic ash, Blackened like city sludge.  Tentative, crampon-fitted,  We step onto the glistening ice, Stamping our spikes into the honeycomb, The brave striding off like Arctic explorers, Cowards keeping close to the truck.  Striations crisscross the ice into a checkerboard, Carving deep moulins, sinkholes, tunnels, And slowly the glacier flows,  Grinding the rock far below, As we are warmed by the sun and hot chocolate.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
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