Showcase: To Our Friend, The Indestructible Light + A Clockwork Bird + No One Listened To The Radio Any More + Heralding Winters End

Edited by Sebastian Elanko

Welcome to the first of my April Showcases – I’m excited to be your editor for this month. I’ve been an avid independent reader since the age of four and have enjoyed reading a varied range of literature in different languages. It’s always fascinated me how the themes may be the same, yet the writing technique and structure can differ so much.

I’ve written since the age of seven, starting with my first comic, which I still proudly remember people reading and the feeling I had of so many enjoying my work. My first literary work was in my mother tongue, Tamil, and I’ve since written in English and Tamil which is not always easy, as the sentence structure and etiquette of writing is completely different.

I have to get into the zone of writing and feel comfortable and relaxed in order to write and refuse to write on demand, which can be annoying to publishers. However, I can say they understand and respect my creative process and that’s really important to me. I wouldn’t change it for the world, as this makes me the writer I am: a published author, poet, playwright and editor. I have enjoyed every moment of my journey and my work reflects my life.

So in this week’s Showcase, I want to reflect on how we’ve borrowed memories from our lives and how our experiences come through in our writing.

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First up,  a personal pieceI wrote with my beautiful talented wife in memory of a dear friend we lost earlier this year.  It highlights how we incorporate our personal world in our writing and how this can be a freeing experience for the writer and provide an intimate connection with the reader.

To Our Friend, The Indestructible Light

Natality is not new—that long-acquainted tide;
Nor is the quietus primal, nor its sting denied.
Without this pair, none can avoid what must be;
Nature’s command becomes the soul’s own veil.
No flower remains forever in bloom,
No ice remains forever unmelted,
No puddle unparched by the ardent sun,
No life untouched—all change is dealt.
When nature summoned, you answered its call;
Memory reigns, won’t let us forget at all.

We started these words, but found
A silence where your voice would sound.
For you, our friend, so kind and true,
Had time for us, the whole world through.
We’d call, and you would be right there,
A steady answer to our care.
“Your health,” you’d say, “comes first, you see,
You must look after you, before me.”
And we, in turn, we hope you knew,
The deep respect we held for you.

Gardener with hands in earth and air,
Where petals breathe perfume prayers with care,
A Gardener of souls too, beneath the bending trees,
Sowed hope, welcoming everyone upon the sighing breeze.
The gardens we visited, golden-green and grand,
Where time slipped softly like sand through the hand.
The lunches we had, the food we shared,
Sacred moments of time – showing how you cared.
The laughs we had – alive, alight, aloud,
A chorus clear that cut through any cloud.

When we sang and danced together,
Joy glowed upon your face no matter the weather.
We remember your smile – sunlight itself, soft and wide,
A warming wave no winter could divide.
And now the world feels quieter, yet still,
Your voice remains in valley, stream, and hill.
The breeze that brushes by, the birds that sing,
All carry echoes of your comforting.

Your love for books – each story stirred your soul, a shining spark,
A lantern lit within the deepest dark.
You were one of my star students, shining bright,
Keen to learn, your eyes alight,
How to draw portraits, piece by piece,
Marks that murmured meaning, giving peace.
You learned the skills of art with open heart,
Each stroke a start of a work of art.
At exhibitions, lingering to my every word, eager, ever near,
Drinking in beauty – bright, absorbed, sincere,
With each question longing to learn the artists hidden hand,
Tracing the truth behind what mind and eyes had planned

In art we’d meet, each week, each month or so,
To watch the quiet ideas grow.
We’d share the brush, the line, the hue,
A silent language, between us and you.
There is no healing for these wounds inside,
Where loss runs deep, with nowhere left to hide.
We seem composed, a calm upon our face—
But weep alone, in an endless, private place.
We held our tears back when you took your leave—
But could not stop the hearts that bleed and grieve.

The final canvas, stark and lone,
A truth we wish we’d never known.
You left this world without a hand,
A solitary, silent strand.
The morning came with heavy dread,
A carer’s knock, the words unsaid.
Our friend, our constant – though we are apart,
You are a living landscape in our heart.

Beside us still we feel you, though you’ve flown,
A gentle guide, and now we walk alone.
When the soft hand of a cool breeze touches skin,
When golden sunbeams wake the world within,
When birdsong comes to lift the weight of day,
You will live with us, never far away.
Life in this world is never still or tame—
When gates unfold, we will meet again.
You will welcome us with arms held wide,
And we will reminisce, side by side.
Until that day, you shine, a steadfast light,
Forever in our hearts, our dearest friend, goodnight.

© Sebastian Elanko & Dr Afsana Elanko, 2026

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From a melancholically tender poem, we now move to an uplifting one. Following the theme of borrowed memories, this next delightful piece comes from a dream, spilling into reality and connecting to the amazing changes we see in ourselves.

A Clockwork Bird

I dreamt I was a bird today
With a stop watch in its beak
Its wings were blue and for a minute or two
Time was its to keep

Today I saw a flower bloom
Its colours made me weep
Petals opening soft and slow
From secrets buried deep

I held my breath to hear it grow
As dawn began to rise
Each fragile fold a quiet note
Of earth and tender skies

The bird returned at break of noon
The watch now still and bare
It placed the silence in my hands
And vanished into air

I woke to find the morning wide
And something bright and new
A fleeting sense that time itself
Had briefly bloomed there too

© Jules Risingham, 2026

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I like the following piece about the radio, because evokes memories of my father and his radio and the hours he spent tuning it. I hope these borrowed memories trigger something that connects you to past generations, also.

No One Listened To The Radio Any More – According To The Observations Of The Radios

We hear her humming first, soon followed by the swish of her mop as she shimmies across the warehouse floor. We think she’s listening to music; she hums a kind of tune and her hips swing in a rhythmic way. Sometimes she stops and pats a white object in her ear which emits short tinny bursts of sound and then it’s gone.

We live in silence on this dusty shelf. Almost forgotten, except for the occasional feather duster that does nothing to keep our metallic buttons shiny or brilliant colours vibrant. Life wasn’t always so dull.

We were the perfect size to take to the beach or take to bedrooms when dads complained about the “racket” and teenagers rebelliously flounced up the stairs singing along to said “racket.”

I guess we could be awkward if we couldn’t pick up a good signal, but we learned that humans liked to mess around tuning in to find the right station. We were very popular on Sunday nights. Thousands tuned into the Top 40. We were surprised that a song about men raining down from the sky would be a hit, but the humans loved it and would turn our volume up, such joy!

In those days we were amazing. We were a turn of our dial or a press of our button away from singing and dancing, smiles and laughter and sometimes sadness. The news was never very cheerful but at least we kept people informed.

Today we remember, as we watch our cleaner busy in her work. We are the reconditioned ones waiting on the shelf to be brought back to life again. We feel sorry for the young ones, straight from the factory floor never to see the light of day, no one to listen to their music play. It seems humans listen to mysterious sounds, silent and lonely dancing and singing on their own….

© Lesley Anne Armour, 2026

Connect with Lesley on Facebook: Lesley Anne Armour,  Instagram: @seasand_lesleyanne or LinkedIn: Lesley Armour

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I would like to close the page with a poem from a fellow writer, Mary, a regular on Write On! which evokes the borrowed memories of Spring and has provided the perfect image too.

Heralding Winters End

Blazing Bluebells bring the sky-blue
Dutiful daffodils dip their heads
Magnificent, majestic, magnolias
Shine, waking the somnolent winter
Heralding its end

© Mary Walsh, 2026

Connect with Mary on Instagram: @marelwa60

Bluebells © Mary Walsh, 2026

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Thank you for spending your time with me reading about borrowed memories and how our lives are enriched by our experiences. Join me again next week, when I will have more exciting pieces to share with you. Finally, I invite you to submit your work and you may see yourself published on this page too.

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You can hear great new ideas, creative work and writing tips on Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo, or find us on Podcasters.Spotify.com.

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