Dora Watkins contributed a poem to each Shapwick News right up until the last issue before she died. She began writing poems as a child and left several hundred poems spanning many decades; some she typed up herself, others have been kindly transcribed in many hours of work by Kayla Lavigne. The range is remarkable: poems on nature and the seasons, the environment, love, village life, housework, social and technological change. The poems can be whimsical, funny, observant about us humans and our foibles; there is even at least one risqué limerick, a poem on Hitler and a wry comment on archbishops from Thomas a Beckett to George Carey. There is Somerset dialect (“dimpsey dark”) but there are also poems on the vastness of space and time, the threat of atomic war, or the effects of climate change. There are jolly ditties and sad reflections, though pessimism is usually balanced by a wonderful positive energy. Some of the poems are sentimental, others toughly honest about inner struggles; others again observe cruelty and destruction in the wider world but draw comfort and guidance from small things, be it nature, friendship or family. We can only print a small selection here, but we do so to remember Dora and say thankyou for a remarkable life and contribution to the village. Finding it hard because the photos a bFlack and white? Find a flourition of Shapwick News at: https://www.shapwickparishcounci l.org.uk/parish-newsletters/ 6 SUMMER I S SUE | J ULY 2 0 2 5 Remembering Dora and her poems After the holocaust Like a light burning out of darkness A kingcup raised its head Like a golden phoenix rising From a black ashen bed Let holocaust on holocaust Forever vent its wrath As hope, it springs eternal Throwing lightness on the path Turns black night into glowing day The reaper passed this way and left A little seed within the cleft To cheer us on our merry way A tiny little flower head Upon a black and ashen bed Like the sun on coal-black day Warms us with its gentle ray O golden little flowerlet bright Help us to treat this world aright. Jumble sale The humble jumble comes into its own Get a new outfit, not needing a loan A fur coat for winter – not real, of course Even an outfit for riding a horse Pushing and shoving – hey! I had that first Fill up a bag until the sides burst No doubts about the pleasure jumble can bring Come! You can buy almost any thing. The flowers drink as from a friend They open up and drink the cup That nature now provides They do not fear the thunder They do not hide their heads The lightning holds no terror As it shines upon their beds First night The scene is set, the stage is laid The audience? Well, they have all paid The toffees are being handed round The papers thrown upon the ground My heart is beating like a drum I wish that I had never come “Matilda! Mary’s lost her book”, She’s asking all the audience to look Oh holy smoke here comes the vicar Makes me feel just that much sicker Wonder if, when in the pulpit he stands, He ever gets sweat coming out of his hands But his audience of two must seem a flea bite ‘Gainst what I see through the curtains tonight All right on the night, they keep telling me But with that remark I fail to agree Women’s International Year Women’s International Year is nineteenseventyfive A year when every woman should be glad to be alive We’ve had Emily Pankhurst and suffragettes and such Women’s Lib and Burn the Bra: it’s all been much too much Now we’re having equal pay for equal work, well done! Women from all walks of life are rising up as one But let’s not on our laurels lie There’s much to do before we die The universe Stars wink and blink In a black velvet sky Ice cold air hits my cheek Penetrates my lungs They expand exhilarated I am part of the night Part of the universe Spanning the ages All one in harmony With its maker
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