Morning-Glory Plume Moth by Anita Gould


Tell me, rectilinear thing,
If you’re a moth then where’s your wing ?
When not in ragged, fraying flight
It’s held-out straight and rolled-up tight.
You’re crucified in upper case,
And dressed in brightest white and beige –
No camouflage for any place,
Except, perhaps, the printed page.

First Fruits

Acorn by Bob

     First Fruits

Only July, and the first acorns down,
Here and there on the lawn.
Windfalls, surely, they don’t look mature –
Hard to imagine an oak will spawn
From these early-birds I found.
They look too lean, too small and green
To be a mighty giant’s dawn.
Only July, and the first acorns down,
The tree advances a pawn.

Though now I look upon around, I see
An oak with its first grey hairs –
Of little concern, but a leaf on the turn,
Like unattended Summer repairs
On an old and lazy tree.
And there on the lawn, the start of a yawn,
A warning from up-the-stairs –
Only July, but the prep-work is the key,
To start to order its affairs.

Fit as a Fiddle

Photo by Zeyneb Alishova on Pexels.com

Fit as a Fiddle

Violins are slim and light
To perch upon the shoulder so –
They mustn’t pile on extra wood,
Or lose their cinched-in waist for good.
For no-one wants to see the sight
Of a bloated bridge beneath the bow –
Don’t let the fretboard become baggy,
Stop the strings from slouching saggy.
Play less heavy, play more bright,
And never let the tension go –
Work those quavers through their paces,
Else they’ll end up double-basses.

Queen Bee

Photo by Skyler Ewing on Pexels.com

Queen Bee

Deep in the palace, centre of her nest,
The bloated Queen holds court.
She pops out underlings, spreading her essence
Who scuttle-out backwards from her regal presence.
Safely cocooned from the drones and the rest,
And only meeting with the better sort –
And she fills-up her hive with honeypots of gold,
While expendible subjects shiver in the cold.

Holly Blossom

The Holly by M.Toma

Holly Blossom

I love to grab a handful of holly-leaves,
Pale and tender in the Spring,
Before they’ve darkened, hardened, sharpened,
Tanned their leather good and bent.
I love to hug a branchful of holly-sheaves,
Ere each shoot has gained its sting –
To shakes its hand with good intent,
To thank it for last Yule well-spent.

Drop the Tittles

Drop the Tittles

Its time to ditch the postrophe,
Its use is a catastrophe –
A snare for those who cant decide
Just how these ticks should be applied.
Theyre deathly silent in our speech,
Beyond the pedants overreach,
Yet still weer well and understood –
Just cos theyre there dont mean we should.

Compass – Needle-Norths

Some examples of mosaic compass roses from Paverart


Compasses never point to the Pole,
Not quite,
They have their own North Star –
It’s close enough to true, on the whole,
Despite it also being quite far,
Wandering through Canadian isles
To sway
The needles off the mark.
But then, True North can sometimes be miles away
From where the gridlines hark.

I recently came across an interesting theory put forward by Lance Weaver that true polar wandering had occurred during the last ice age, putting the top of the world firmly within Greenland, which might explain why Europe was covered in ice-sheets while Alaska was mostly ice-free. I have no idea if it’s correct, and would welcome a chance to read some counter-arguments, but everyone seems to be ignoring it.

The Opiate of the Masses

Photo by aakash gupta on Pexels.com

The Opiate of the Masses

Poppies on dresses, poppies on golf-clubs,
Poppies on penny-for-the-guys,
Poppies on the grills of Beamers and V-Dubs,
Poppies on Mowbury pies.
Round-up refuseniks, I hate the lot,
Let’s paint poppies on their doors –
For the poppy is the sign of the patriot,
And mine is bigger than yours.

First Chill of Autumn

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

First Chill of Autumn

It isn’t a frost – don’t fret,
But it is a cold morning –
Notice is given, we’d better take care,
It’s merely the first of the nips in the air.
It isn’t a frost – not yet,
But it is a fair warning –
It won’t come tomorrow or next week, it’s stating,
But Autumn is old, and the Winter is waiting.

Thank-You and Goodnight

detail from a 1700s German painting by, well, who knows ?

Thank-You and Goodnight

The End of the World should come on a Sunday,
After a glorious night on the tiles –
When we’re hungover with breakfast at noon,
Then we’d welcome Apocalypse, fire and typhoon !
We’ve slogged all the week, so give us some fun, hey,
Hold off the Hades till priests fill the aisles –
Not with a Mardi, but Samedi Gras !
A season finale, and one last hurrah !