Scurry
Quick, down here !
Over there !
Are they near ?
They’re ev’rywhere !
You take one way,
I’ll go this –
Meet you Monday,
Hit-or-miss.
Best not dally,
Shake your feet –
Up the alley,
’Cross the street –
Don’t stop now !
Pick up the pace –
I’ll see you, somehow,
Usual place.
Roofkeepers
The gargoyles are guarding the peregrines’ nests,
In their makeshift high-rise habitats.
They gurgles-down the gutters near their new houseguests,
As they keep the drainpipes clean, and they trap the thieving rats.
They shelter the chicks when the North wind blows,
Inbetween the buttresses the parapets.
They lure-in the pigeons, they ward-off the crows,
And they scare-back the devils with their gruesome silhouettes.
T-Moth
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.
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
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 expendable subjects shiver in the cold.
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
Its time to ditch the postrophe,
Its use is a catostrophe –
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.
Needle-Norths
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
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
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.
Rhyming Couplets 