The Written Word Group

 The disappointed bishop leapt to his death in the abyss because of his guilt.

The manifesto of the dawn, Is something which cannot be drawn? As the cock in the farmyard crows, For the long dark night to close. And the silvered moon sets in the west, All the nocturnal creatures go for their rest. While the birds sing out their morning chorus, Welcoming the day before us. And morning light filters from the east, It brings out the daytime beast. And the farmers rise and begin their work, A thing that they cannot shirk. To toil in the fields all the day, That’s the way they earn their pay.

“C’mon it's time to get up, girl” called out mum.   I didn't want to get up, it was Sunday and I wanted to sleep a bit more. However, I was conscious that my help was needed. The camaraderie that existed amongst us, the youngsters, was divine. It was fun to get together with my friends for a good cause.  I jumped out of bed, had a quick wash, got dressed while mum prepared breakfast. I had just finished having breakfast when I heard the horn of the van bip to let me know they were outside, waiting.   Every Sunday, about 6.30 in the morning, the van would collect fifteen of us young volunteers. We never knew what kind of voluntary work we would be doing, until the day we were picked up.  Let me tell you briefly, about the period of 1970-1973 when I lived in Chile. Despite the opposition intending on several occasions to intervene during the elections, which were supported by the USA, Salvador Allende succeeded. He was the first socialist President ever...