I had to move her now Because the winter was here Sailing her was usually fun When the sun was there to cheer. Blowing wind and heavy rain The boat is severely tossed around Hold on, grit my teeth, look out! We must not go aground. There are no lighted buoys No shapes upon the shore No moon or stars to help us and daylight is no more. I've been so foolish, will we make it? I feel that I have sinned Then a calmness overtakes me as I smell wood smoke on the wind. Can you smell it? I asked my friend Just a trace on the air Someone is burning wood on the shoreline over there. I know where to head if the shore is on the right Keep straight ahead and find the flashing beacon light. There it is! Just a little more Then hang a left into the creek Shine the torch - look there's the quay - And the wind has ceased to shriek. The bonfire burner on the shore Will never ever know The comfort he rendered two frightened men Who were lost in a winter blow.
Seven Horses
Leaving my campsite one Sunday with the daylight nearly gone, in the scruffy field across the road a procession strode quietly on. A string of seven horses walked towards a corner tree. Quietly, full of purpose and oblivious of me. Three foals gambolled at the front - there was order, it was clear. Their attentive mothers followed close and a stallion brought up the rear. In circular assembly beneath the tree they stood facing out together. Ready to face any enemy or changes in the weather. Now ghostly, and almost lost wrapped in the coming night, the seven horses settled down and disappeared from my sight. September 2003
My Friend the River
From the wide mouth of the Estuary To the stream beyond the road Flow the waters of my river Muddy, salt and cold. A rebirth occurs twice daily Through all the seasons weeks With recharging of the Marshes And new filling of the creeks. Its spawned life along its banks With folk of special breeds Who learned to fish and farm there To provide for tribal needs There's constancy, which comforts And always lets me know That whatever happens in my world The river will ebb and flow.
To Be Young Again
If I was young once more and could return to earlier times not just for the return of vigour but to acknowledge the kindness of others. When I was chasing dreams and scrabbling upwards in the dirt there were those who understood and excused my folly or stooped to help. A bumptious thrusting callow chap climbing upwards on better folk found his route to wealth and fame and lived only for the moment. There were the family members astonished by this maverick in the nest who strode into unknown arenas and made them his. Workmates who held on the coat tails as he went where they feared to go were glad that it was his head above the parapet and they could move on without risk. But when he fell down hurting as he sometimes did, some of them comforted him with an arm, a meal, or a bed. An earnest, driven and intense soul wishing I had paused on the way to say thank you for the help aided by the understanding of others.
Damn Magnolia
It was a large piece of ground, rough but flat he would soon make it green once the savannah stuff grew out it would be the best lawn ever seen. Then the boss of the garden explained that her Granddad had supplied her free a twig of non-descript horticulture which would become a Magnolia tree. This level, easy to maintain urban vista was dealt a stroke of malicious force a devil entered the hilltop garden and it came from an arboreal source. With tears flooding his wind blown face he watched the initial incision and the tamping around the root completed this terrible irrevocable decision. Each time he went to mow* with the straight line urban cut he had to swerve around this twig his book on lawns banged shut. The tree got taller and got much thicker and then grew branches out the sunlight was denied to the ground so all the grass died round about. It just got worse as years went by as the interloper spread needing always to cut round the beast the mower man wanted it dead. Slowly the tree worked a magic and became the accepted face of the green lawn at the garden's summit which really brightened the place. One day pink leafy flowers thrust skywards bursting through a late April snow, overwhelmed the tree hater realised he didn't want the Magnolia to go. * went to mow his meadow
Robin Goodfellow A Man We Called Mann
What to say about you Mann? After nigh on 15 years We shared a lot you and I A few pubs, and many beers. You've gone now Mann You went without a fuss You "popped your clogs" so quietly And did not inconvenience us. I recall you could chat with anyone And find interest in what they said Put your views, hear out theirs, and Prejudice seemed never to enter your head. No doubt your time on the guns bred tolerance But the cost was high at El-Alamein Most of your friends died there And your hearing was never the same. War shocked and damaged a little You returned to the land of your Kin Rejoined the industrial giant you knew And climbed the ladder within. Marriage, children, dogs and humdrum Followed in family mode Early release from the shafts of work Meant more time for the road. And when your sight went finally The car and caravan had to go You were close to tears then But fought not to let them show. I was your son-in-law and I Miss you just about each day I miss your willingness to involve yourself And be ready with your say. Mann, when next you sit at God's right hand Sharing a pint or two You can get him to put the world to rights As you and I used to do.
Robin would have been 100 years old on 1st November 2020
All those Sons and Daughters
Another November 11th The 76th I have seen Men and women of our forces Parade together with the Queen. Here we remember the fallen Those who will never age People with just one life to live And lost it on the world war stage. It's all well done as usual British ceremony, pomp and grace But I always wonder who it is decides on war in the first place? Who takes this grave decision A singleton, quorum or committee? To defend our realm and order the death of bodies, brains and beauty. It has to be - It must be so To ensure we all stay free But whoever it is starts our fights I am glad that it's not me.
Fred
A mathematician called Fred Was having some problems in bed His floppy part was short of loves So his wife took up knitting gloves. He buried himself in Pythagoras Until hearing of Viagra on a bus He went shopping with gusto on the net For his lusto need not be over yet. They loved in Tescos and the Woods Now Fred could always give the goods At last their lives seemed just fine And his wife sold the knitting twine. But there's a side effect with *Viagra Besides the one we know It causes high pressure in the bladder Which bursts out when you 'go'. So for Fred now problem two began When one day standing before the pan Letting nature take its course He shot backwards with great force. At high speed he hit a wall Causing a heavy rad to fall It landed tap first in his crutch And damaged his organ rather much. Badly injured in intensive care He had major surgery there, He left with a void where once was meat Which made his pills quite obsolete. *allegedly
A Squirrel’s Passing
An old grey squirrel lay dead in the road His passing was witnessed by a hawk and a toad First came a truck and then a car Never knew you could spread a squirrel so far. In life the squirrel wasn't feeling so swell Nothing about it was working so well He had B.O. and the dandruff was rife A big disappointment to his small squirrel wife. Bad breath, constipation, piles as well The squirrel's life was a living hell Of all his complaints he was heartily sick So he decided to die in the busy traffic. So puffed up with wind, like a round furry ball With bladder leaking and bowels near to stall In the road walked squirrel until he got hit And everything nearby got covered in squirrel .....
Rosalind Revisited II
Some sunshine with blue in the sky On this day I come again To a cemetery the other side of town To where you lived. There's a picture on your headstone It's in colour and clearly shows Your reddish hair and curls And eyes that know everything. For some reason you were nominated to leave us early Not to follow the usual paths of life We lost your gifts to our society You were never someone's wife.
As I See Things 