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Virginia Betts
Virginia Betts is a British author, poet, actor and tutor from Ipswich in Suffolk. She has written four books: The Camera Obscure, a collection of supernatural and noir stories; Tourist to the Sun, a poetry collection, That Little Voice, poetry by Virginia Betts and Burnt Lungs and Bitter Sweets, Virginia’s debut novel, a darkly comic slice of urban grit about four punk friends and their antics spanning over four decades. She has made a start on a third poetry collection and another book of short stories.
Virginia has had poetry, stories and articles published in various journals and magazines, both online and in print, and won some awards for her work; she is also an actor and performer: recent roles have included Kate Bush and Patricia Highsmith.
Virginia is a member of The Poetry Society and a trustee and Stanza Rep for the Suffolk Poetry Society. She is a member of Equity, The Writer’s Guild, The Suffolk Book League, The Wolsey Writers, Cambridge Troop and a founder of WACOS – Writers and Creatives of Suffolk and writes for Felixstowe Magazine and Author’s Electric.
In one of her previous lives, she taught at Ipswich School and now runs Results Tutoring. She somehow manages to find time to have fun with her family, and she’s often found in the swimming pool at David Lloyd Gym in Ipswich, where she runs the Book Club.
An Afternoon Walk.
It is after midday,
And, filled with wine and warm food,
We flatten the wet grass
With clumsy trudge.
Leaves reveal the sun’s prismatic flashes,
Intermittent arrows that offer
Blind comfort.
The damp air smells of twilight,
Though the day’s hardly done.
And each stone, weather-worn,
Deflects a close inspection,
In shades of shadowy blue.
We tiptoe around the grassy mounds,
I, imagining the shivering rows, turning,
Where we step,
Disturbed.
We hold hands, but I am
Not there.
I think I hear ancient hymns drift and catch
On the breeze,
And whispered voices slip from slumber,
Diffuse across time, without words.
All that remains is a feeling.
The chipped and crumbling stone fragments;
My thoughts dissemble into shards
On the grass.
And I am in this earth-
This soft, brown, enveloping ground,
Absorbed,
Where no light or sound
Can reach me.
This strange, bleak and hollow silence,
Surrounds me fold on fold,
Where no bird sings,
And stories never told
Fight to surface.
I hear the distant mower drone,
And lamb bleats murmur,
While high above, an engine of the past
Hums peacefully across the sky,
The thin smoke trail connecting you, and I
To be wrapped within this silent world;
To cease to be;
Where all deeds die,
And somehow slip away
In time, we are all just stories;
Our vain attempts to make our mark,
Melt like sandstone in rain;
Like chalk into dust.
Our names carved in art
Fail to be indelible,
And who knows
Who lies here?
Our fingers find their meeting point.
I think this moment should be suspended.
For jealous Time trivialises the relentless
Crawl upon the wheel,
And shatters us,
Scattering our thoughts to be blown to the wind.
Copyright © 2024 Virginia Betts
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