What a Difference a Year Makes

Frank L Ashen was one of my father's younger brothers, and the one who I saw most often as he lived just around the corner when I was young. Later he moved a little further away to Buckhurst Hill, before spending the last years of his life in Holt, Norfolk.

He was a wonderful uncle, with a delightful sense of humour, who always seemed to manage or handle everything, . My father suffered from Parkinson's disease for many years, and Uncle Frank was always a source of support. When he was around, you knew that things would be OK.

At some point, he was involved with the film industry which flourished for a time early in the 20th century in the Wood Street area of Walthamstow. When the Walthamstow Amateur Cine Video Club made a video about this, entitled "Hollywood E17", they interviewed Frank in his back garden in Buckhurst Hill. The video is posted on YouTube, but unfortunately mostly without sound for copyright reasons. He appears at instant 8-40. A DVD is now likely available to replace the video.

He was a director of an advertising agency, and was very creative. I have a painting of Epping Forest, and also a Fabergé style decorated ostrich egg as reminders of him. He was also an expert photographer, and during World War 2 was in aerial reconnaissance in Myanmar (Burma). This is a Christmas card he sent at the end of the war.



I was only aware that he wrote poetry towards the end of his life, when it appears that  he wrote one each year to celebrate his birthday, maybe starting at the age of 85. This is one of the two that I have. He was clearly living in Buckhurst Hill when this one was written. I am indebted to my cousin Gillian in Australia for providing others.


WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES

Just one more time, like the chorus of a song.
A year has passed but it hasn't seemed that long.
The passsage of time not regulated by a clock,
is, in many ways, something of a paradox.
The days pass more quickly as the tasks take longer.
But the evenings really drag midst solitude and slumber.
Those memories of yesteryear; business agonising
Combined, at times, with some pleasant socialising.
Now, but dreams, as I slurp my bowl of soup.
When I'm shut in for the night like a chicken in a coop.

No car, so it's travel by bus now, when shopping for odds and ends.
The bus is fine, when it runs on time.
Rare indeed, with the one-seven-nine.

A mini cab to Sainsbury's helps with the bigger load.
Just hope to find a trolley that hasn't a mind of its own.
Shop, then to the check-out to start another race.
Unpacking, then repacking, trying to keep pace.
With the bleepers going as I check what I'm owing,
I'm trying to get trolley re-loaded.
With all this hue and cry it might be better if I
could get myself bar-coded!

And so you see, Life is no shopping spree
When you don't know what is in store.
So give a thought for folk like me
Whose age is measured by the score.
It's a sign of the times as you deteriorate,
You know for sure you've passed your "sell by" date!


RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

 

 

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