Rocket

May 27, 2018 at 1:14 pm (Poems) (, , , , )

In Snailybeach, beyond the wood,
There lies a garden pure and good,
And down the path in yonder house,
Live Mr Fox and Mr Mouse.

One morning, in the month of May,
Young Mr Fox was heard to say
Oh Mr Mouse, come here and see,
There’s something here, what can it be?
It’s rocket shaped and squashed the veg,
Come quickly, I am quite on edge

Well Mr Mouse ran to his side
He stood there and his eyes were wide
For sure enough, as Foxy feared
An alien spaceship had appeared.

The two young men stared long and hard,
At what had landed in their yard,
So silver clad and pointy tailed
They thought its engine must’ve failed.

But what’s inside? said Mr Fox,
It can’t be just an empty box,
I think we ought to coax it out
So Mr Mouse began to shout.

He shouted loud and shouted strong
And shouted till his voice was gone,
But still all access was denied
The rocket’s secrets trapped inside.

Then Mr Fox had an idea,
What music would you like to hear
If you had come from outer space?
We’ll welcome them to our home place.

They dragged out their old gramophone
And played a tune and sang of home
And slowly so they hardly knew
The rocket opened… In it grew

A single plant of silver green
It was a fabulous alien bean!

Advertisements

Permalink 2 Comments

Stars

August 15, 2015 at 8:46 am (Poems) (, , , )

Daytime’s primary colours
paled in comparison
with those pinpricks of light
in a meteor night sky
tickling our tired minds
till we surrendered significance
and lay down, bright with laughter,
for a beautiful moment.

Permalink Leave a Comment

Castle

July 28, 2013 at 10:10 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Shropshire, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , )

In this hall we stand and then the castle is ours,
with its cruck roof a fine shelter in this time;
hear merriment; see us feast well; and smell the
smoke and meat and sweat

from our revelries. Friends join us in song and dance,
faces lit by lamps and burnt orange leaping flames
which wrap around them. Sir Knight, fill my goblet
with goodly red wine,

pull your bench to mine to whisper our intent.
We’ll not leave this place till night, drunk and confused,
breaks the great door, spilling its heady reason –
We’ll not surrender yet!

Permalink 5 Comments

Breakfast

April 4, 2013 at 9:22 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , )

Walk out with me in morning feet,
along the edge of spring,
still steeped in snow, our woollen coats
pulled hard against the wind.
There, gowned and slippered, see she stands,
Nature is summoning the land,
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
She holds the sunlight in her hand.

Walk out with me in morning feet,
and catch the swooshing loud,
of Nature smoothing cotton sheets
and plumping  pillow clouds.
She lifts the verdant grass to grow
and lusty, showered in the dew,
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
will dress our  hillside all anew.

Walk out with me in morning feet,
to greet the waking day,
when preparations are complete
and humans on their way.
Our breakfast on the quilted hill
a secret unrevealed until
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
She sweeps our breadcrumbs from her sill.

 

Permalink 14 Comments

Moments

October 7, 2012 at 2:02 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

We missed by one idle moment
the autumn oak leaf held aloft as faerie cup
soon dew dashed, splashed and spilled away;
a gluttonous thrush throating scores
of red rowan berries, dish of kings
one paltry clue left upon the path;
pink tongue of parched rock salt
drinking in the evening air;
a well travelled magic lantern list
and burst still burning through the leaves;
the excitement of ripe Russula mushrooms
spontaneously shattering;
but there is just time to hold one long finger
of the mother of all sunshine
as she combs the trees
bringing burnished heaven to our hillside.

Permalink 4 Comments

Cake and eat it!

September 9, 2012 at 7:17 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

This weekend in the perfect weather
we went to a boot sale all together
the stalls were selling standard fare
from books to jam to things to wear

We bought some clothes for a few pounds
and spent some time just wandering round
then when it got to half past three
we were tempted inside by thoughts of tea

St Anne’s in Arscott is a church
so pews are the only place to perch
As we were sitting with our cups
our twelve year old came wandering up

He looked concerned and ate a scone (pronounced sconn)
and then he ate another one
the question that he asked us next
revealed just why he seemed perplexed

Dear parents (he can be quite formal)
I’ve discovered something quite abnormal
Tell me why do grandmas make great cakes
when no-one under sixty bakes?

We scratched our heads and drank our tea
it seemed we had no answers see.
Will our dislike of messy flour
or too much supermarket power
or evolution or education
leave us soon a cakeless nation?

(answers on a prayer book)

Permalink 1 Comment

September in Shropshire

September 8, 2012 at 10:23 am (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

In our English country garden
morning arrives for breakfast
clothed in misty vagueness
to find arachnid market traders
already skilfully threading
silver baskets between bushes where
a snail’s early yawning turns the head
of a song thrush hoarse from dawn
dew drying in the wan sun smiling
weakly at Fuchsia drunk on rich ruby pallet
who bow to orange Montbretia and ageing
Buddleia bracing itself for the arrival
of those blooming butterfly and bee
bounders regardless of a definite
chill we sit thin jacketed drinking
coffee and eating bread spread
with cherry plum jam ruminating
on the day ahead and the need for
autumn preparation and repair.

Permalink Leave a Comment