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The old scaffolding pole,

bridging apple and greengage trees,

five feet from the ground,

was a circus tight-rope, high above the ring,

with no safety net.

The nettle-strewn gap

between fence and garage wall,

eighteen itchy, stinging inches wide,

was a mountain cave, bandits' hideaway,

a secret lair.

The back garden,

bordered by the Montagues' and Farm Road,

ten by fifteen yards of tended lawn,

was the Oval, Edrich facing McKenzie

for the Ashes.

The house still stands

but the children have moved on,

four boys finding new paths and fields;

and ten grandchildren dream new dreams

across a shrinking world.

Whisk(e)y cake

Whisky cake, O Whisky cake!
O alcoholic, frisky cake!
Oh, had I known what lay in store,
I might have spurned you, risky cake. 

In Sainsbury’s store lay requisites:
Spices, flour and fruity bits,
A pretty tin to carry you,
With flowers and hearts and such-like glitz.

A Sunday afternoon of baking,
Rubbing, stirring, sieving, shaking,
Oven heated, cake tins greased,
Oh the joys of fruit-cake making.

Savouring the rich aroma,
Amateur – that’s a misnomer –
(What is it comes before a fall?)
Give myself a chef’s diploma!

Sifted sugar, butter, zest,
Orange juice, freshly pressed,
Lastly whisky – that’s the icing,
Made with nothing but the best.

Actually, some might disagree,
About the whisky, for you see,
Tullamore Dew is not a Scotch,
But Irish whiskey, with an ‘e’.

Now the cake is good to go:
Icing like a field of snow,
Smooth and pristine. O vain cook –
Foolish braggadacio!

So the overweaning fool
Tenderly drives the cake to school,
Treads the darkened corridors,
Trips and drops it: fate so cruel!

The horror! The horror! Dark heart so sore:
Thus the world ends, with no more
Than a bang from the tin, a whimper from me:
Out of the cake tin, onto the floor.

All is not lost! The fates relent;
Though the icing's ruined, and the lid is bent, 
The cake survives, the tin’s upright —
Put on hold the last lament. 

A lesson in humilty,
And the advisability
Of caution in dark corridors
To guarantee tranquility.

Maundy Thursday

He'd have had his feet washed sometime,
not with rich perfume or gushing tears,
but with water, by a hard-pressed servant,
slave almost, eyes cast down, and
shoulders sagging from a lifetime's toil.

And he'd have noticed. The servant
would have mattered, have counted to him.
And he'd have stored up in his heart
how our comfort comes at others' cost,
our humanity drains as we deny the human.

That night of all nights, in the upper room,
stripped of all finery he washed our feet,
became the untermensch, beneath notice.
Peter noticed, and couldn't bear it. A kingdom
without kings, a commonwealth of servants.

Have we kept the kingdom free of slaves,
learned the hard lesson he taught to Peter,
been servants of all, and sought the lowest place?
Remember the dusty feet that stumbled and fell
carrying the heavy cross to Calvary.

Biggles in Stoke Park - February 2011

wide green spaces suit
a brown and white spaniel on
a grey winter's day

Limerick Haiku - 17.10.2010

flecked gold reflected
on the Shannon – mellow guests
drifting on a tide of wine

Easter morning at St Martha's

Thirty humans greet the sun
by a church, on a hill.
'Thine be the glory', they sing,
as squadrons of birds shout
their raucous dawn challenges
from commanding positions on high.
Mist shrouds layers of hills
in this North Downs bowl,
sea-green in the mid distance,
breeze-block grey at the edge
of our sight; O what a morning
to be alive, to be greeting the son...

But if the mist lifted
from our souls' perception,
would terror of the blazing god
blind our hearts and crack our minds,
or would a joy too rich to speak
raise us far beyond this English hill?

After WH Auden: Watergate Bay, April 18, 2011

Garish kites invade the sky,
parachute and dragonfly.
Bright-striped plastic windbreaks sprout,
ripple with each sea-breeze, flout
Nature's muted seascape tones.

Near a beach-stream strewn with stones
four girls stand and plan, while one
smaller brother digs for fun.
Thus the children colonise
one small patch of sand that lies
unclaimed in the beach's vast
runway long expanse. At last
feeder trench and pool are done.

Spindrift flashes in the sun
where the surfboards peak and drop.
Seagulls chase their shadows, stop,
perch on flinty cliffs, await
crab from pool, or roll from plate.

Now a ragged dog strolls by
tired beneath the drowsy sky.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone