Category Archives: St Mark’s Church

Art, Belief, Bible, Church Buildings, Events, History, Kitty Milroy, St Mark's Church

Come and see Kitty at our Heritage Open Days

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St Mark’s is taking part in the 2025 Heritage Open Days and welcoming people to the church on Friday, September 19th at 11am and Saturday, September 20th at 3pm, to see the Kitty Milroy murals and have all their questions answered by Nick Seversway who is an expert on the subject.

This is an ideal opportunity for anyone who hasn’t yet seen the murals, or would like to find out more, to come along and have a detailed look.

The murals, which are of significant national importance in the development of 20th-century mural painting, were painted between 1911 and 1920 by local woman Eleanor Catherine Wallace Milroy (‘Kitty’) using other local people as models.

They blend influences from European Symbolist painting and the Arts and Crafts Movement and have been featured in the national media. Comparisons have been made with pictures in The Watts Chapel and it is known that Mary Watts visited the area.

The murals are a celebration of faith, seen through the natural world, and include the words ‘O, all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord’  (The Benedicite, a canticle taken from ‘The Song of the Three Holy Children’ from the apocryphal parts of the Book of Daniel) and ‘O give thanks unto the Lord’ (from Psalm 136).

They had deteriorated significantly over the years and in 2021 were restored by internationally renowned mural conservationists Stephen Rickerby and Lisa Shekede.

There is no need to book, so please come along on September 19th or 20th. Refreshments will be served.

Clothing Giveaway, Environment, Events, Giving and Fundraising, St Mark's Church

Cake and Clothes: Happy birthday Clothing Giveaway!

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A year ago the parish got together with the Hale Community Centre to start a new project—the weekly Clothing Giveaway and Café on Monday mornings at St Mark’s.

We didn’t know how it would work out but, 12 months down the line, we have queues at the door every Monday before 9am and several hundred free items of clothing or shoes go out of that same door before 11am. In fact, we are so pleased that we will be celebrating on September 8th with birthday cake!

The idea of the Clothing Giveaway is to encourage people not just to throw out their old clothes but to donate them—as long as they are in good condition and clean—and to fill the spaces in their wardrobe with clothes which may have been worn but still have plenty of life left in them. The current preferred expression for this is ‘pre-loved’ which probably appeals more than ‘second-hand’.

This has a two-fold goal: to help people save money and to help save the planet. Many of us are struggling economically after years of austerity and the fashion industry has a serious and growing impact on the environment in terms of water-use, emissions and landfill, as well as the human cost of poor working conditions (see here for example). We are doing just a little bit towards protecting the planet and its inhabitants, but the more people who do their bit, the more impact we all have.

The Clothing Giveaway has been able to have this successful first year thanks to a lot of hard work and generosity. Farnham Lions and Voluntary Action South West Surrey gave us grants; clothes, shoes, sheets, towels, and baby gear have poured in from donors; the Community Centre designed flyers and banners and keeps spreading the news; and St Mark’s congregation has shown a wealth of forbearance about having a section of the church permanently filled with clothes as well as putting out tables every Sunday for setting-up later.

Most of all, I want to thank the volunteers who work tirelessly every week, sorting, folding, hanging and even ironing clothes; laying them out in a far more appealing way than I could ever manage; coming up with themes; taking bags of unusable clothes to be recycled; serving tea, coffee, cakes and pastries; chatting to those who come in; and generally keeping the show on the road. Amanda, Anne, Kay, Mandy, Sonia, Steph and Sylvie are there week by week with others dipping in and out when they can. Thank you all!

We could do with some more help, especially in clearing up at 11am on a Monday so if you think you could help, even occasionally, let us know. Email me at rev.stella@badshotleaandhale.org or call me on 07342508164 which is my number for curacy matters.

Come and see us on September 8th for cake and clothes, or any other Monday you fancy. We are open every Monday morning, 9-11am, apart from Bank Holidays and we will close over Christmas and New Year.

Badshot Lea Community Fete, Events, Leadership, magazine, News Releases, St George's Church, St John's Church, St Mark's Church

Your July/August magazine is here

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The summer heat is really upon us but our magazine is full of cool news and events. Read about Rev’d Lexi, our new rector, meet her dog Bugsy and see what the Church Cat has to say about them. There’s a report on our fete, news of family workshops at the churches courtesy of Farnham Maltings, and yet another dog – Lilli, the Maltese, who is bringing her human, Jenny, to St John’s for a Regency evening of Pugs and Prejudice.

That’s just a brief glance at some of what you can read if you click below. And check out our advertisers too!

July and Aug 25Download

Farnham Literary Festival, poetry, St Mark's Church

The Farnham Poetry Competition 2025: 16s-and-under winners

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Seven and under

Joint first prize

Family
Dolcie Della Jennings

I have a mum her name is Jenna
I have a dad his name is Leigh
I have a brother his name is Kingsleigh
And then there is me.
That’s my family.

Unity “Means Humanity First”
Naqasha Nawal Ali

Unity means we all stand tall,
Together we rise, one and all.
No matter where we’re from or who,
Kindness and love will always come through.

Helping each other, hand in hand,
Together we make a stronger land.
When we share and care each day,
Unity leads the peaceful way.

So let’s remember, it’s easy to see,
Unity means humanity, you and me!

8-11s

First prize

Family Brings Us Together
Max Heath


Your family loves you, always and forever
Your family is the thing that brings you all together

We love a family reunion, we have one once a year
We like to play in our cousins’ treehouse, while our daddies drink their beer

My mum reads cool books with me, I always laugh or cheer
My mum makes me feel unique, I always want her near

I dream of being a writer, my dad’s my biggest fan
I know he really believes in me, he always says I can

My sister says she has my back, we even talk in code
She always reaches for my hand, when we cross the road

My Grandma tells me stories – about our family past
I find them ever so interesting, they should be on a podcast

My Grandpa plays fun games with me, he always lets me win
He sits there with a happy smile, drinking a glass of gin

My family loves me, always and forever
My family is the thing that brings us all together.

Second prize

What it means to be together
Alice Colombini de Mello and Penny Lockyer


Hand in hand we get through the day
together we are better, we’re here to say
Together we get lost but we are together
so we will find our way.
We share the moments,
the smiles go on for miles and miles
The tears drop down, together we help each other
Together we conquer our fears,
and become better peers.

Third prize

Me and You
Imogen Clark

Me and you
Are like daisies and buttercups
We are friends,
Just different clumps,
I am like me
You are like you
But that’s OK
Cause you’ll stay true!
Me and you,
are like pencils and pens,
We do different things,
But we’re still friends.
I am like me
You are like you
But that’s OK
Cause
you’ll,
stay,
true!

Highly commended

When
Peggy Wingham

When midnight runs cold,
and petals grow old,
we’ll all be in it together.

When tears sprint fast,
you know it won’t be the last.
However, civilians will pull you together.

When your diamonds rust,
and you try to thrust,
I will help you, whatever the weather.

So when the rain clouds burst,
and you can’t remove the dagger.
When the lightning strikes,
one wound after the other.
Remember one thing,
that will stay true forever,
together we’re strong,
and we’re strong together.

Unity
Najia Eshaal Ali

Together we stand, as one in faith,
Helping each other, in love and grace.
Unity is strength, as we all believe,
In God’s mercy, we shall receive.

Hand in hand, we walk the way,
Sharing peace, night and day.
No matter the difference, we are one,
In the light of God, our work is done.

Unity means love, support, and care,
A bond so strong, beyond compare.
In Islam, we’re a family so tight,
United in faith, with hearts alight.


Unity
Eesha Haque

UNITY.
What more could you ask for
A bond that lasts forevermore
Like a flower we stick together
Making sure our world doesn’t turn grey
But now we have no peace left
The petals of the flower have gone astray
Fires, wars and bombs are destroying our unity
Fighting for land – it’s all wrong
To unite together we have to be a community
So we must unite like we had promised long before
Before our world comes large at war

UNITY.
We have to save our world before it’s too late

12s-16s

First prize

But they still forget
Evie Goode

Her fingers traced the grooves in the stone,
Smoothing through every dip of every sorrow, of every tear, of every word ever said.
Creased words spelled the name, carved by nothing more than a pick and stone:

ALBERT BAKER

Breath caught in her throat, he was but a boy; 20 years and remembered by whom?
The ebb-and-flow of the wind caught in hair which flew through pale wind,
Leaves danced like tiny ballerinas, graceful, painful, regretful.
The darkened truth of joy shone vibrantly through a sun which was, in turn, shielded by a haze of remorse.
Solitary droplets spun and spindled,
Maybe he felt this too.

On another occasion, a youngster approached this block, this wall of sorrows,
Grasping to the names which were never remembered – Reaching for those who never were reached:

ROBERT EDWARD BELL

Eyes glinting towards the figures which influenced this young mind, he was but young as well: 20 years and remembered by who?
The deep thoughts here reflects but the depth, the tragedy of the sea in which he fell,
Life slipping like the grubby fingers which slip down newly cleaned stone.
Brushed away into the wind, another soul forgotten with the many,
H.M.S “Queen Mary”

They would walk past his name every day; whether this was to work, school, pleasure
Who was he?
The boy was taken ill- died quite soon:

JACK DURRELL GREEN

Resting, under sun and moon. He cries for his mother, his father, his future.
A future which waits, waits, waits and waits
A future in which he will chase with broken limbs,
That’s what war does: 18, not a man but a boy – not free. Just the governments play toy.
“Thy will be done”

So you see, as her finger traces, through every nook, every cranny, every crack and crumble,
As it dances, through butter soft wind, as they walk,
Through the nights welcoming sins:
You see them there, shell shocked, skinned, scared and rearranged, mutilated and poor, stripped of rights which didn’t quite feel there before.
Watch their ghost eyes. Faces. Tears.

3 of a kind, 3 dead in millions, not forgotten in words. A war to end, but still cause more.

Second prize

Stars
Andrea Domingo

An upbringing of stars, like ochre pearls,
Above you is familiar. The motionless, gangling night Follows you, like an inky shadow.
The same sky entices you to sleep,
Even in an unfamiliar town,
Even throughout an unknown city you’ll never see,
Outstretching across the Earth.

Third prize

Timeless Duality
Emily Peters

Tell me dreams of starlight Of hell and raging fire
Tell me your love, your hopes, your wants Come show me your desire
Run deep beneath the boughs with me Trip and fall on rocks
We’ll look at clouds and sing to them About tears, your blood, your shock Let the sea become our medic
As the crimson stops its run Push and drown us in its body As its always done
Then surface, as we breath The sweetness of the air Wind will shove us upwards It’ll ruin and pull at our hair
But we’re hand in hand in the forest
And we’re breathless and smiling just because We both love these sides of nature
We both love that it’s just like us.

Highly commended

Together
Jessica Jones

Together
One brick is not a wall
But many bricks form a strong, sturdy wall.
One lion, no matter how strong
Cannot be a pride
But many lions is a pride with a mighty stride.

Streams join to form rivers,
Rivers join to make oceans.
Just as people join to make friendships,
Friendships grow to make lifelong bonds.

Together we stand tall.
Alone we stand small.
There is no I in team,
But there is an us in trust.
Trust forms to make a shield,
So do not let your shield rust.

Together we have a chance,
To make a difference.
Alone we do not make a dent.
The thing we all must learn is,
One pole cannot support a tent.
Joined we have the best chance,
To be the change we want to see.

Together,
Standing in unity.

Unity Poem
George Lovelock


Once we stood as a whole together, Thinking powerful bonds would last forever,
In a few years time these bonds have shattered, We left the people who really mattered.
Life as a wall, it got in the way,
The friends we knew disappeared day by day, Now that we’re lonely, now that they’re gone,
Should we have let go of these powerful bonds?
Looking back on the memories of happier times,
Ones shared with friends, now but thoughts in our minds, The people spent time with, the people who cared,
These friendships we forged and the memories we shared.
Remembering times, wishing we could go back, So we could see again, the friends we now lack,
Our friends that were there but aren’t here anymore, The friends that we loved and still love evermore.
What unifies us are the friends that we share,
Our friends that stay with us, the people who care.

Picture by Robert Butts on Pexels

Farnham Literary Festival, poetry, St Mark's Church

Farnham Poetry Competition 2025: Over-16s Highly Commended

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RAINBOW
Cosmo Goldsmith

I emerge in a shimmering maze of shifting colours when sun and rain make play. I blaze I arch I curve like a bow I am full of contradictions I am taut-stringed with tensions yet tinged with tenderness. I uplift and exalt the heavens I bridge the chasms between sky and earth I am a promise fulfilled and shaped by a god who has softened from vengeful rage to a being of compassion, perhaps even regret, for his acts of severity.

I am the heart-chord earth-core sky-high gleam of hope that follows in the wake of destruction and slaughter, all my shades and tones of colour keep mingling and merging, sharpening and softening, suffusing across the spreading landscapes of people’s dreams. I am full of contradictions. I am bold and light-filled and ostentatious yet also transient and elusive for I can vanish and fade into the blurring veil of clouds in the flick of a moment like a magician’s disappearing trick.

I am the ship that carries the hopes of renewal for the young and idealistic, the eco-green warrior dreamers that sail the frozen seas and follow the whale roads and the creatures of the deep.

I am the flagbearer, the coat of many colours, the herald and the champion of those who feel different and isolated for I revel in the richness and strangeness of our neuro-diverse world.

The twenty first century is not a friend of unity
Chris Hunter


The twenty first century is not a friend of unity.
It wants you separated, identified and alone.
You must buy stuff you don’t need and then buy more.
You will contradict what you know to be true.
You will value only the views of the celebrity.
You will consume pornography within your cancel culture .

The twenty first century is not a friend of unity.
It needs you silenced, compliant and afraid.
You must watch only these news providers.
You must deny climate change and fly frequently.
You will fight over the last pack of toilet paper.
You will be judged on your kitchen and latest phone.

The twenty first century is not a friend of unity.
It needs you marginalised, impotent and without a voice.
You must vote but the present course is set in stone.
You can protest, but only here and between these hours.
You will die but never speak of it before you do.
You will judge the thief through a cocaine high.

The twenty first century is not a friend of unity.
It needs you to hate, blame and die at its convenience.
You can grow old but must not be a burden.
You will believe the ignorant and ignore the science.
You will blame the weak and uphold the rich.
You will value life only in all that is consumed.

The twenty first century is not a friend of unity,
But unity needs no such friends.

Forty years on 
Liz Kendall


She’s a goer, our Margaret;
I want to be her when I grow up:
announcing my eighties with sex appeal and sloe gin.
Her younger man lives at a distance
too far to just drop in;
no such audacity –
make an appointment!

I covet her striped skirt,
flaring blush to wine
to maroon to black grape.
Peach scarf tied at her throat
like a debutante.

Her vibrant ensembles the right side of taste,
unlike her jokes, which are
joyful and wild and true. She’ll say it,
and make sure you hear, leaning in
to catch your eye, claim your attention.

That is not my style,
but perhaps I can practice;
little by little, one wink at a time.
If I start now and don’t give up drinking,
or dancing, or sex, or bright colours;
if I don’t lose interest in my changing self.

What springs of delight we are, we women;
how our bliss bubbles up, percolating,
getting better and richer with time.
We know our own deliciousness;
we have the first taste,
then add cream, and a dash
of our own hand-bottled booze.

Sword Dance, Woodland Stage
Liz Kendall

Layered under tradition in heavy skirts:
twenty-five yards of silk glorious and awkward,
filling the well of the driver’s side,
spilling to hug the gearstick and handbrake
as made-up eyes startle themselves in the rearview mirror.
Costumes are a rope bridge between fear and action
and there are always loose threads.

Together, we step onstage and leave no sister behind
until each pair of hands above their slowly rounding hips
maya maya maya maya
lowers one solid sword onto her solitary head.
Feeling the weight which wants to fall
just softly turning its curious flat-sided face:
catching the leaves’ glances, reflecting them back to the trees,
inviting light colours clouds; caught and cast.
Our swords fill up with sky as we worship below them.
As we hope for grace.

Smile: it’s a prayer.
Smile as the smooth snaky arms undulations.
Smile as the sharp level drop hip rotations.
Smile chest circles crests rolls like a wave
past the soft belly skin to the coin-heavy belt.
Ocean-travelled silk worn before torn before reborn:
hot colours stitched with gold. We hold each other tight
with our will and our bare feet following.
We will not let a sister or one single bright sword fall.

We celebrate with sugar and with laughter,
picking out a patch of grass; shaded, but not yet damp.

One good foot
Richard Lister

Most residents sit disconnected
as I wheel Mum towards the garden,
others watch TV on Volume 10
and only Dave’s room spills chatter.

A photo shows him in the amber
of a cycling team, still wiry fit at 60.
Ten years later and his right arm and leg
are listless, face half crumpled.

His words fumble so I lean close.
They were born last week,
three budgie chicks tumbled in down,
painted adults sing nearby.

Three weeks later, when Mum is dying,
I just discern How is your mother?
and see his cobalt eyes are moist.
Dave squeezes my arm.

He moves his wheelchair slowly but when
Douglas, who’s 102, needs help,
Dave pushes them both
with his one good foot.

ONE
Chandra McGowan 

Together here safe
Swim with love against the tide
Touching the heart space

Shared Disbelief
Lucie Rhoades

I don’t think I can do this anymore
as my body convulses and contorts and contracts,
and I let out what can only be described as a primal roar.

I know this is in my design but I don’t know what to do,
I can’t find the strength, I’m exhausted.
I keep thinking I’ll get there, I’ll pull through.

But, at this moment, I’m not sure how.
I’m trying to move with the ripples of hurt
but deep below I hold such self-doubt.

I think of those who have come before me on this path,
the friends, my sister, my mother,
and I wonder if I have that resilience too to last.

Somehow I find myself grasping a connective energy that joins us all,
one that pulses through motherhood
and catches us when we stumble, when we fall.

I come back to my breath and the room that I’m in.
Inhale, exhale, let the power of pain flow.
I can’t wait to meet you, now, let’s begin.

THREE YEARS ON
Kate Young


The sky split wide with sound at dawn,
The twenty-fourth of February –
The land scarred swiftly as bombs fell.

It’s been three years since war began,
Already many foreigners forget –
But Ukrainians will not.

Millions of Ukrainians uprooted,
Thousands of civilians killed or injured,
Nearly seven hundred children dead.

Ukraine has lost swathes of land
In south-eastern regions,
Many simply fled their homes.

Displaced Ukrainians carve
New lives in European countries,
Or elsewhere in the motherland.

The Russians may take our homes,
But they will never take our souls,
We stand together in unity.

We stand for justice and freedom,
We stand for hope, and the right
To simply be Ukrainian.

Picture: Taeshin T. on Unsplash

Farnham Literary Festival, poetry, St Mark's Church

Farnham Poetry Competition 2025: Over-16s winners

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First Prize

Of touch
Richard Lister

Northern Kenya

Old Thomas treads
carefully, senses the land
with his toes. His eyes
are set with white.

He’s swathed in the crimson cloak
of the Samburu tribe. Once a warrior,
now he holds my hand. I feel
the warmth of a culture
unafraid of touch. We pray

and our worlds are briefly one, the words
of brothers whispered to our King. We talk
of last year’s drought that turned
his goats from flesh and milk
to bone and dust.

Such droughts were once in an elder’s life,
then every twenty years, then ten and five.

Have we caused this? Is God punishing us
for fighting with the Rendille?
We cut down the mwangati cedars
for charcoal, to cook. They can
no longer trap the clouds.

Old Thomas will never see the buzzing neon of Beijing
or muffle himself against the aircon-ice of Miami’s massive airport.
He will never travel in a plane, sleek with light.
What kind of brother am I if I am part of this?

Old Thomas waves me into his hut: a dome
of arched sticks and stretched food bags
with English words in UN blue.

My eyes stream from the smoke in the dark.
We drink sharp tea till I need to leave.
He spits a blessing on my hand.

Second prize


‘direction of travel’
Kate Kennington Steer

foxed and dog-eared, the map got torn
quite some time ago, wind ripped from cold hands,
blown outside in, centre fraying from fold
after refold, text blurring deep down
under mud smears and tea stains, outdated
details litter its surface, green turned grey,
count the loss of public houses, count them,
count too those country churches now des-res
fixtures,

count them

for what has gone is much more than a mark,
something infinitely more precious than
the ubiquitous PH, or a cross

for what we need to notice and to grieve
are the places where we sang together,
where we sat silent together, where we roared
on our teams, snatched a lunchtime mindful
moment in passing, sneaked in for an after-work
pint, there where we enacted our rituals
and all done as more than one

a collective breathing in and out,
a commingling of air,
our times set apart, time out of time now,
and we still don’t understand what we’ve lost,

the simple exchange where neighbours’ hands
met to share peace, where ‘we believe’ was true,
where a nod to a regular meant home
as much as welcome, marked time
as well as place.

do we really expect
our coffee shops to provide a replacement

for such devotion, such mutual service?
where else do we now meet, week in
and week out, and greet those like and unlike
us? how far will we travel to find out?

I have a map we might use,
let me share it…

Third Prize

New Atlantis
Liam Smith

It starts with the chokings

With snappers snared in six-pack rings
As broken tanks bleed rainbow spills
That turn the seas to darkness. The sharp taste
Of hydrocarbons, clogging gills and lungs
As another miracle creature gasps
In the grasp of a polythene noose. This is truth:

A whale calf, poisoned by the milk of its mother’s
Pollution-tainted breast, lifeless body still clutched to that
Wretched parent’s chest. Forests of corals, bleached
Of colour, turning reefs to crypts. Think:

If once the merfolk built their kingdoms
Beneath these once-clear waters
Nothing of that tragic Atlantis remains.
Each silenced siren buried in a plastic casket
Beneath corrupted waves. And in its place:

A citadel of waste. An island that lurks
Beneath the Pacific surf, a thousand miles
In girth, a curdled horror of nurdles and polymers,
Cast-off casualties of planned obsolescence
That oozes chemical venom into the very water
That supports it. Our sad Atlantis:

Scrap capital of the world ocean. Are we
Not water? Blood and salt, veins and
Waterways, current and pulse. One world,
One body. More than any one could muster
The strength to alter. And yet – one community,
One cause. A call to form a blue world order and to build

A New Atlantis.

Written in response to artist Julia Ann Field’s painting Choke.

Picture: Samburu County, Kenya, 2014 by Edward Harris on Flickr. License: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/