I sat in meditation, counting the breaths,
the mind was growing brighter somewhere
a little to the left of straight ahead.

The doorbell rang; Raymond stood there,
Sunday suit in the rain: ’any chance
of running me up to the chapel?’

Two years went by; I sat among his friends,
grizzled Methodist farmers, waiting –
for the old man’s great bulk to arrive.

About Harry Nicholson

I'm an enameller who works with a kiln, fusing pictures in glass onto copper. I write a few poems and short stories. There is an eBook anthology of them, 'Green Linnet' on Amazon. Also a novel, 'Tom Fleck', set in the North of England of 1513 - the year of Flodden. A sequel to 'Tom Fleck' is 'The Black Caravel' published in 2016. My anthology of poems came out in 2015: 'Wandering About.' I've a blog of poems, stories and art at:
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8 Responses to Neighbour

  1. Kim Nelson says:

    this is a precious recollection filled with depth and meaning

  2. Susannah says:

    Wonderfully written Harry. I do enjoy your writing.

  3. I really like this! So much said in a few meaningful words.

    And it reminded me of a childhood annoyance when our family went to chapel while all my friends went to church! Chapel sounded so stuffy! 🙂


    • Thanks, Christine. I was expected to attend church or chapel (depending on what my mam favoured at the time), but I mostly sneaked off to fish for sticklebacks and newts. The offering coppers were a problem though (it was God’s money) – so I put the pennies down a drain.

  4. Oh I can see this so clearly – waiting for his bulk to arrive at the church. Well done.

  5. viv blake says:

    I love the way you commemorate him.

  6. Taylor says:

    lovely friendship recalled.

    Happy Sunday.

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