The people of the Middle Ages never had a birthday, Or at least, not like we do. They maybe never even knew the day, or even year – Yet they got through – What they had instead were saints’ days – Feasts announced in church which shared their name – As round they came. But what of those whose names were strays, without a saint? Those newly current names, without restraint – More Hugh than James. Well, soon enough a saint would rise, An Eleanor of Norwich or a William the Wise, And were the real? And did they care? For now at last they had a saint to share… But come the Reformation, And the Calendar of Saints was for the chop ! While out of Italy were names of wonder, Such a lyric crop, And Ancient Greece was full or hailing heroes, Full of epic claims – And so the English turned to birthdays, Given newborns strange and current names.
If such a calendar were to be created for Britain (as I’ve mused on before), it is worth noting that in the 2024 statistics for England & Wales, there are 711 boys and 751 girls whose names have at least 50 occurances. Of course, this does include different spellings of the same names, but it works out at around 4 names each day. The only attempt I’ve found of such a scheme in the English-speaking world is the American-based one, though I’m surprised Clintons & Hallmark haven’t been pushing the idea.
Felicity, a scatty dreamer, Known as Flick, a rose-cheeked beamer, At a wedding in Californ-aye-ay. And after vows before the priest, A thousand butterflies released Bring gasps of awe, as the band strikes up with My Way.
Flick is spellbound, Flick is smitten – She’s never seen the like in Britain – How can she bring butterflies back home ? And think – how much she loves attending Summer weddings never ending, Circling-round the brides as flit-wings roam…!
But a Google on her return flight Soon puts her zigzag thinking right – The monarchs and mormons and morphos are def’nit’ly out ! She has to stick to native species, Has to find our cutest beasties – The ones to make the congregation shout !
Brimstones ? Yellow beauties – great ! But Flick will learn they hibernate, And that is why they’re rarely captive-bred. And swallowtails may look so regal, But to capture them’s illegal – No chance she can raise some in her shed…
And I can picture well the scene Where Flick is sure she’s found her queen – The gleaming, bridal-dancing cabbage white. She doesn’t understand the panics From the guests who grow organics – How can such a small thing cause such fright ?
Or how about she comes to learn Hey best bet for the least concern Are admirals and peacocks – at a price. Her flower garden trades it’s petals Into beds of singing nettles Just to raise the caterpillars nice.
And oh, what hijinks they’ll create When Flick hears of a heavyweight The elephant of hawkmoths – what a stag ! But noisy wings attract a buzz, And hairy bodies ruffle fuzz, And spiral mouthparts set some tongues a-wag.
But hey-ho, here’s the happy ending – Emo goths with nuptials pending Love these bugs with a heavy-metal twist ! And so she spends each wedding do In vintage black all Summer through, Until the credits roll – you get the gist…
Persuading the usually crepuscular elephant hawkmoths to fly during the daytime is not impossible, but after the initial burst into the air, they probably won’t flit around for many minutes before wanting to settle down. If Flick is written as smart, she’ll have numerous pots of honeysuckle / jasmine / red valerian / fuchsia dotted about the guests, perhaps supplemented with sponges soaked in sugar-water, to draw the moths back down, and become an attraction in their own right. She could even stray scented sugar-water onto the palms of guests for an even closer approach.
But if she wants a proper day-flying hawkmoth, she could consider the hummingbird variety – but it comes with its own headaches. Natural England considers it a non-native, but frequent visitor and suspected resident. So, she might fall afoul of Section 14 of the Wildlife and Countryside Act (1981) for the wilful release of a non-native species (or, more specifically, “not ordinarily resident in and not a regular visitor to Great Britain in a wild state”). The trouble she will face is that the Act does not supply a designated list of native species and does not simply declared any species not listed as illegal…
And does the law consider a species that arrives every year, and increasingly so with climate change, to actually be non-native in the first place ? If she made a point of collecting her breeding population from individuals in Britain herself, and then contacts Natural England for clarification, they might tell her that they don’t think she’ll need a special licence – but this isn’t the same as saying her action is definitely lawful when the law has never been tested in this specific grey area. Good content for a romcom, but likely to be pricy if she ends up in Crown Court as a test case Perhaps she should just stick to the elephants…
Meanwhile, whoever organised this wedding was deffo breaking the law…
I saw a trendy cafe, with nothing but delicacies on show – so I checked them out, and took a seat, so that I could practice my German when I paid. I ordered a piece of cake, but it never arrived, to my cost. It seems, my earnest order was at once lost in translation…
Ich sah ein angesagtes Kaffeehaus, mit lauter Delikatessen ausgestellt – also checkte ich sie und setzte mich hin, um Deutsch gut zu üben, während ich zahlte. Ich bestellte mir ein Stück Kuchen, doch bei mir kam nichts an, auf meine eigenen Kosten. Es scheint, meine aufwendige Bestellung ging auf einmal in der Übersetzung verloren…
I saw a trendy Coffee-Haus, With loud delicious-eatings out-displayed – So checked I them and placed me down, To German good to practice, as I paid. I ordered me a chunk o’cake, But at me came not at, on my own cost. It gleams, my busy order went On one-once in the meta-setting lost…
Incase you’re wondering – the umlaut in the title isn’t an umlaut, it’s a diëresis…
I was born where the Avon bends, The Tamar darts and the Dart up-ends, In a parrick you might miss at night, Where the Otter and the Parrett fight.
I was born where the stones stand-up, When my Pa taught me to long-man up, To roll my arrs and burr my talk, And fly my mane like a horse of chalk.
You might-be even hear the fiddle-folk Beneath the sunset glowing cliffs of red – You may just hear the bleat and croak From herds of raw-wools singing low, And spinning-out their thread. From this side of the Barrow, So it’s said, Tomorrow’s days ahead.
So come and take a trip with me Upon the Highway 303, The outer-limits of outdoors Await between the downs and moors.
It’s said we don’t like strangers round these parts – By grockles, I’ll be bound… Don’t fret, we hamlet folk won’t fuss, Cause who could be more strange than us?
You might-be even hear a banjo twang Beneath the moonraked moonlight, down our way. You may just hear a lively gang Of applejacks upon Midsummer night, If you should stray. From this side of the Severn, So they say, All Heaven comes to play.
There’s far too many teams in red, (And those that aren’t are blue instead) – With some in stripes, a hoop or two, Between the red (or else the blue). And some are claret, some are sky – But few will use a diff’rent dye.
So we look ourselves at home – Yet on the road, we shed our skin. And the fans will wear our latest polychrome With a loyal grin – Any colour, just so long we win.
But here and there, a yellow lurks, Or gleaming white, which also works, Or sometimes green, or sometimes gold, (Or even pink, if feeling bold). Now black’s a pretty unseen beast As that’s the ref (or was, at least).
We may look odd away, for sure – Yet when at home, we bear our crest, Just like we’ve done a century or more Upon our chest – We don the colours that bring out our best.
The moment when the words come out, That’s when my writing’s at its worst – The struggling, spurting, roundabout, The inspiration and the doubt, As bubbles rise and burst. The dread of what comes next, There’s always next, There’s always more to say – The need to fill the page with text, While my subconscious nags away. So what do I take fright in, Ev’ry sentence, ev’ry crumb ? The grimmest part of writing Is the endless writing yet to come.
The moment when the work is done, That’s when my writing’s at its best – At last I get to see the Sun, And finally it feels like fun, Now all that’s off my chest. Of sure, there’s still the typos, Always typos, But they’re such a breeze – I love to sit and smite those, One-by-one, with such an offhand ease. So what do I delight in, Ev’ry sentence, ev’ry rhyme ? The greatest part of writing Is the having-written, ev’ry time.
Hang on, you aren’t my cat… You may be black, But what is going on ? I haven’t made my flat A home and snack To ev’ry random tom. You may be in my kitchen, But you won’t be in my heart – So don’t you try your switching, I can tell you all apart. For my cat is a black, alright – He’s not a white, he’s not a grey – The blackest cat from out the pack, And not some shady stray. You may think you’re as pitch as night, Enough to give old Poe a fright – But don’t you bring your appetite in here, Let’s make that clear ! Get back, I say, get back, To your own mansion or your shack – I will not suffer this attack By any feline amateurs. For sure, you look alike, You’re an imposter out to syke – But you had best get on your bike, Because I’m not at home to purrs. I’ve got the knack to crack your little skit, You tacky counterfeit – Don’t think your soft meows will work one bit ! So hit the garden, Jack ! For just because my own darn cat So rarely stays at home with me – Don’t think that you can fill his paws so easily. Don’t think that I will pat you where you’re sat, I can’t be having that ! Don’t kneed my mat or jump onto my knee. Begone ! Don’t start to mew, It’s time to shoo, Your little joke is through. So one more stroke, and then it’s out with you…
Eclipses, they say, are spectacular things – Or so I’ve always heard. When the world goes quiet, the heaven sings, With Bailey’s beads and diamond rings – Just blind chance, yes, but look what she brings ! Who dares to not be stirred ?
Well, me, alas. I haven’t the wings Of a shadow-chasing bird. It’s not only sun in my eyes that stings – At this price, no wonder they toppled kings ! When it comes to jaunts and faraway flings, I’ll have to take their word…
“Here in the Amazon, expect to see creatures So unlike anything you’ve seen back at home.” So the tour-guide promised, in our cabins in the jungle, That were concrete-free with no trace of styrofoam.
Twenty structures or so, I reckoned, And only reached by the river – no roads. With the sounds of the rainforest right on our doorstep, With monkeys and parrots and cicadas and toads.
But…around the huts, some things were looking Just a little too familiar – too much like Blighty, Like dandelions, growing wherever they can – I’m unure – should they abhor or delight me ?
I heard some chickens in a coop, and honey-bees – And I’m willing to bet they’re the same damn species As thrive in Britain, like the white-bloomed clover, And the stands of reeds on the river’s beaches.
So, on our way here we passed through Manaus, With its pigeons and its mallards and its sparrows and its rats. Now, I didn’t see those out here in the jungle, But I do see a peregrine falcon – fancy that !
And there goes the buzzing of a common house fly, And there’s a daddy longlegs – and a cockroach on the roam. And a cat to catch mice, and a dog to keep guard, And the humans, of course. We’ve some of those at home…
When Luna Saturne hears her Dad Complain of moths at work, She wonders why this makes him sad And not be quite the perk – Because his line is publishing, She somehow understands, They must be atlas moths, whose wings Are wider than her hands. Their caterpillars take their chance, As fat as sausage-rolls, By hiding on the Swiss-cheese plants – That’s why they’re full of holes. She pictures them about the lift-shaft, Drinking ink and glue, And beating wings with such a down-draught, Papers fly askew. They’re dancing round fluorescent tubes, And hogging AC vents, And stealing wayward sugar cubes For shredder-paper tents. But soon her Dad must cut her cloth – They’re smaller than she wished. So now, it seems, both dream and moth Must be downsized, and squished.
Rhyming Couplets 