Twenty thousand years ago, Then all we see from here Was nothing but Devensian – All white and cold and clear. It took a thousand years of snow To lay the drifts so deep – A slab of ice far denser than the hills, And fast more steep.
Welcome to blighted Blighty, Frozen over, unawares, Though the Southern downs were merely tundra, Roamed by mammoths and bears. But the thaw would bring a mighty change, An invasive species, exotic and strange, To cast the native beasts asunder – Humans, expanding their range.
The Devensian British-Irish Ice Sheet by Andy Emery
Once a-time, a set of boots Would mean a sturdy pair – A sign of well-protected feet Parading down the lane or street. So from the crushing jacks of brutes, Or workmen’s safety-wear – They took their time to implement, Behind the laces of intent.
But now a-days, we’ve turned the boot Into a quick affair – We slip them on and zip them up To wash the car or walk the pup. We find there is no substitute For easy mid-calf flair, We’ve sheathed each shin and sprung each arch – We’ve filled our boots, so let’s quick march !
I cannot think of something worse Than writing long by hand – How much is my electric verse Beyond my wrist’s command ? It’s only thanks to ones and noughts My words are ever read – Or else, my messy, speeding thoughts Would never leave my head. For who would bother to unpick My blotchy, crossed-out pages ? But thankfully, I type and click My wisdom for the ages.
Welcome to the cock-up club !, You find us in good company, For all of life is here. It only takes a simple flub, Or wrong-conclusions jumping free, To sign up for the year. We’ve all pushed at those doors, Ignoring signs That clearly say to pull. We’re all stripped to our drawers, From time to time – With wits of cotton-wool. But dare to look us in the eye, With chin held high, And take all come-what-may – “I may have lost the plot, But it was still my shot, And mine to throw away.”
Welcome to the cock-up club !, Where fellows blunder in size-twelves When hacked-off at the knees. A school-of-hard-knocks learning-hub, Where silly-billies kick ourselves With foot-in-mouth disease. We’ve all passed through those doors, Pulled up a chair, And slumped and sulked a-while. My tale is much like yours, We’ve all been there – At least let’s gaffe with style…! Let’s dare to look them in the eye, And dignify Our faults without a frown – “We may have made mistakes, But they were ours to make, And ours to double-down.”
The old ladies gathered twice a week To play at bridge. My mother hated that, though wouldn’t speak To change the game. She’d simply sigh, and push her weary glasses Up a smidge With her bidding always full of passes, Sitting out the frame.
She would have gladly played at hearts or whist, If they could try it ? Yet feared the only choice was suffer this, Or staying home. They concentrated far too much to chat, So she kept quiet – And so, for want of company, she sat There all alone.
“Those other games”, the ladies often said, “Are so unfriendly, Competing with each other – where instead, We play as teams.” And so they dealt-out bridge, and never rummy, Quite contently, While mother only uttered, as the dummy, Silent screams.
A family get-together – Ev’ryone’s here, And here we all are. There’s Harry and Joan and Heather, And John with a beer, From near and far. And there’s little Robbie, holding, What’s that ? A teddy ? But no, not a bear. Why is his mother scolding him ? He’s crying already, That doesn’t seem fair. No wait, he’s fine. Oh, red wine please. So, still at the school ? Oh no, at a bank… Now Tommy, you’re such a tease ! Don’t be so cruel To Ellie and Frank. My, that’s a jumbo hankie there ! Do you need to wipe So many tears ? I’m joking of course, our Claire – When he talks tripe, You seem to be all-ears. I’m getting too long in the tooth For all this junk, It’s all so grey, Annette. I’m tired, if you want the truth, I’ve packed my trunk, Yet I don’t forget. But this is a pleasant wishing – Everyone’s here, And here we all stay. Except…is someone missing ? For all this cheer, Why does nobody say ?
What is it about the English And our football fatal flaw ? We treat the pitch like a nine-to-five, Content with a goalless draw. ‘No-one likes a show-off’ we say, As the donkeys bray and bore – Then we lose to a team with speed and style Once more.
So sing it on the terraces, As we play for the penalties – In-ger-land are slow and bland Cos we’ve got the British disease.
Our league may be exciting, But that’s thanks to the immigrants – So we take the fans for granted As we play in our underpants. ‘It’s the winning that counts’ we tell ourselves As we plod through the next campaign – Then we lose to the quarter finals, Yet again.
So sing it on the terraces, As we’re brought back down to size – In-ger-land are getting canned Cos we’ve eaten all the pies.
There’s a Brexit metaphor to be had here, I’m sure, but the truth is that we were just as unimpressive while we were still in.
Police Training Disused Football Field by Odd Wellies
Season’s End
Another season over, hey ? There’s no more football after May, I think the FA Cup was Saturday. Oh wait, this is an even year, So the World Cup or the Euros must be near, Within a month or two. I doubt I’ll watch it much or cheer, But hear results from colleagues, as you do.
I’m not so much a fairer-weather fan, As a blue-moon pair-of-eyes, I guess. My attention span is twice-a-season, maybe less. It pops up on my radar In a pub or in the press, Or I maybe hear the sports news in my car. Two-nil, three-one, goalless draw, But don’t ask me the offside law.
However, at those moments When it bubbles up again in-mind, I wonder how the local team are doing ? Have all of their opponents left them far behind, once more ? All administrated, relegated, powerless to score ? Or are they flying high this time, Pursuing record-signings, epic cup-runs, in their prime ? And am I missing out on must-see viewing ?
But then the next song plays, and I forget. And all their efforts pass me by to no regret. I might yet catch a casual match, or maybe not But either way, it’s soon forgot. So, no more football after May, Not that I’ll really notice that it’s gone. Another season over, hey ? And someone won and lost, and life goes on.
Nothing spoken, nothing tensed, Or nothing sharply out-of-phase, But something that is slowly sensed, A re-tuned hum, a distant haze, That draws me daily through the maze With more for than agenst.
Nothing solid, nothing whole, Or nothing with a cutting edge, But something with a little soul, A knowing twinge, a gut-felt hedge, That walks me out upon the ledge With just enough control.
I’ve often thought there’s something zen about the washing-up, Of the rhythm of the saucepan and cycle of the cup, Of plunging-in all dirty and pulling-out so clean, Of the slight-self-satisfaction of using no machine. The sculpting of the bubbles and the water steaming-hot, Of the stray spoon in the bottom and the ring beneath the pot, Of never glancing sideways at the mountain yet to come, But only at the plate between our finger and our thumb. A swirl until it’s squeaking sees its spotlessness restored, As it’s stacked into a stoic jenga on the draining-board, Then polished and re-housed once more – or left to drip and dry, Till the water streaks the glasses and the runoffs calcify. Splashes on our shirt-fronts, splashes on the floor, Till the water’s grey and tepid, and we fill the bowl once more. Yes, the art of washing-up is quite humble in its zen – And come back after dinner, we can do it all agen…
Rhyming Couplets 