A month of Sun, and then a month of rain All in a day Of monochrome, A month of Sun, then get the horrid rain Out of the way, While we stay home.
Alas, a month of heat will bake the ground As hard as clay, It can’t be tilled – So when the rain comes down, so fleet, It floods the river, floods the street, But cannot penetrate two feet, And washes off, away. The aquifer, I fear, is not refilled By what the clouds have milled.
The thing is, if you want tall trees, Then what you need is drizzle. A garden full of bumblebees Needs flowers, which need drizzle. For wheat that’s taller than your knees, For greener grass and fatter peas, For tamping down your allergies, You need a May of drizzle.
Red Kite, photographed by Tim Flach for a 2019 Royal Mail collection
Look to your Lesser Linen
Red kites are as red As golden eagles are golden, And seen against the sky, they’re just as black. But there’s no mistaking that forking tail And fingered wings on which they sail, As slowly they embolden, Advertising how they’re back.
Just when Milton Keynes was thriving, So they were released upon Our unsuspecting hills and country towns – From Chiltern ghosts to national fame, So barely-flapping, barely-tame, From Leighton Buzzard to Ducklington, From Salisbury Plain to the Sussex Downs.
They breached the M25, of course, And rode the tarmac thermals on, Lazily and low above the brownfields and the parks – Ev’ry year they’re getting closer To the busker, judge, and grocer, Hamstead Heath and Kensington, Beneath their ever-wider arcs.
These eagles of the suburbs Are circling over school-run traffic, Just above the High Street rooftops, watching us all day. The City has its peregrines, But those are rare and tiny things, But these commuters are so graphic, Newly neighbours here to stay.
Picking up the roadkill, Perching on the weathervane, Weaving litter into nests, and drinking from the overflows, Stealing produce from the barrows, Scattering the cockney sparrows – Maybe London once again Shall be a town of kites and crows.
She sits on her first floor balcony, Overlooking the square, She sits and sips her Earl Grey tea In the light West Country air – Here in her true-blue toytown Like a tolerated pet, Her flat dressed-up and she dressed-down, As she joins the Georgian set. Dorchester is hard on Hardy – Thomas, yes, but never Keir, And the local Labour party Is about to disappear. But the class-struggle can still advance With the taste of the elites – Should not all workers get the chance To live in pleasant streets ? And yes, she’s aware of their breezeblock hearts, And the lack of ceiling-height, And the constant cars that plague these parts – But still, it does alright. Developers on best behaviour, Showing that they can play nice – But oh, the cost for a little flavour ! Beauty’s bogus price.
Of course, whenever HRH comes by, She must lay low As locals swoon and neighbours sigh At the whole boot-licking show – And even when it’s safe to leave And stroll about the place, The very streets still live and breathe With his family’s air and grace. She sees it in the names of roads, In the plaques above the shops, She hears it in the toady toads Whose croaking never stops. But the sad fact is, it’s thanks to him That there ever was this town – It may be prim, but never grim, As sparkly as a crown. So yes, she knows, for all her gripes, It’s thanks to him, her joy – For were it left to lefty types Then tower blocks ahoy ! She sits on her balcony under the sun Over the flagstone square – And curses the Tories, but knows they’ve won – For she’d rather be here than there.
Don’t tell me that you don’t use backing, You’re out of breath but your voice ain’t cracking You’re throat is rough but you still sing higher You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar ! I know, I know, you don’t havta stand stock still To still be making a sound, But the more you move, the more you end up shrill From all that jumping around. Is that the reason op’ras are static ? No-one wants their divas asthmatic As half their notes are drowned.
It used to be so easy to mock you Without a single mic on a stand – These days they’re tiny, it’s harder to knock you Phoning it in – but soon we’ll clock you. The more you rock like a tick-tock band, The more you rely on a helping hand, With your live feed cut and your vocals canned.
You can wave your arms, You can shake your butt, You can flash your charms, You can jiggle and strut, But if you wanna be clear and pure Then keep one foot firm on the floor. And don’t pretend to be a flyer – You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !
Now I agree that the single’s better, And sometimes live you lose the odd letter, But don’t pretend you’re a multitrack choir – You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar ! I know, I know, you’re not on the radio now, You need to put on a show – But the more you move, the more you moo like a cow, The more you croak like a crow. Is that the reason Broadway has dancers ? So the singers aren’t breathless prancers Swallowing their mi re do.
It used to be so easy to bust you, With none of your guitars plugged-in. These days, you’re wireless – we have to trust you, That what we hear is you, and just you. Dance if you must, and thrust and spin, But don’t pretend with an innocent grin That you don’t commit the original sin.
You can do the bop, You can do the bump, But not the hop, The skip, or jump, If you wanna be belting-out that solo, Then don’t be bouncing around like a yoyo. And don’t pretend that you never tire – You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !
Every time this poem is read aloud, I want the speaker to also be performing a complex dance routine.
I also wrote an extra section below for the twelve-inch version:
Lip Sinking
Are you ready to answer back ? Let’s jump on the spot till our voices crack. Don’t ask your techs to mute your mic, Just pant along as much as you like.
And one and two and three and four Not with a whimper but a roar ! And five and six and seven eight, Don’t swallow them, articulate !
You got the lungs to go agen ? You ready to sculpt some oxygen ? I can’t hear you, let me guess, I’ll take your wheezing as a “yes”.
And one and two and three and four Sing for your supper, then sing some more. And five and six and seven eight, Sing it loud and sing it straight.
You’re puffing and blowing from all your jerking, There’s no shame showing how hard you’re working. Don’t deny your throat’s on fire As you stretch those vocal chords to the wire !
And one and two and three and four, Let’s drop things down to the basement floor, And five and six and seven eight, Let’s hit the heights to the Pearly Gate.
Insides on the outside. I was always told That they’re rigid suits of armour That cannot stretch or fold – Usually, the process is To shed, and swell, and harden – And that’s their lot, till next they moult – No piling all the lard on ! But the sloughing of the shell enables Fixing dings and missing limbs – And that’s why adult lobsters Keep on shrugging off their skins. They don’t increase that much in size, But do perform repairs – Though there is danger here as well, When things go wrong downstairs – Not to mention getting trapped half-way, Their robes un-doffed, Or creeping-in mutations, Or if gobbled-up when shedder-soft. So long-lived lobsters in the end Just wear the same old clothes, And adult insects die before The wear-and-tearing shows –
And mostly this is true – But creatures are a funny lot, And odd ones swarm into the mind Like ants around a honeypot. To pluck out one example, Just ask a termite queen Why her bum looks big it that While her subjects are so lean ? And she’ll reply, “My abdomen was once a slender thing, But see how it slowly stretches year-by-year, And king-by-king. And though I’m decades-old And my body marked with time, I’m very well-attended To keep me in my prime – I since I lie about all day, What need I beauty for ? Or even care for working legs Which barely reach the floor ? The changing fashions of the young are not for me, My togs are fine – I take-in food and pop-out eggs In this old skin of mine.”
Gather ye Rosebuds While ye May by John Waterhouse
Ophelia’s Pharmacy
Here’s rosemary – for memory, some say, But here I offer it up for aches, And for the colic, here’s caraway, And there, valerian for shakes. I have the wisest sage for eyes, And columbine for fevered brows, And lavender, to drive off flies, And camomile to help you drowse. Some fennel to keep you regular, back there, And thyme to rid the worms, Here’s rue for you, but it scalds in the sun – take care, Use St John’s wort for the burns. And for the maidens, I’ve violet and pansy, To keep your flowerhead free from weeds. And if these fail, there’s purgative tansy – Restoring your bloom, not going to seed.
Camomile is a type of daisy, by the way. And it looks like Ophelia has also found a fresh supply of violets.
And yes, I know, I know, I’ve rhymed worms with burns. Not ideal, but sometimes you have to take a leaf from hip-hop’s lyric sheet and roll with ‘close enough’.
Dandelion Flowers Abstract Art Tapestry by ArtlandStudio
The Dandelion International
Daisies and thistles are blooms fit for socialists, Sharing a flowerhead as a co-op’rative – Pooling their pollen with petals in common, A composite commune where sharecroppers live. From grounsel to ragwort, these working-class blossoms Are seed-making factories, union towns – They all get to share in the dew and the nectar, And all get to put on the sunflower’s crown.
Suburban woods are managed affairs, They’re planted, pruned and pinked by blades – Such golden Autumns, verdant Junes, And endless Sunday afternoons. They’re so unlike the home of hares, These avenues and picnic glades – With squirrels a-dozen, and walkies-dogs, And no dead-heads or fallen logs.
Suburban woods are manages affairs, Of spotless clearings, sculpted shade – Each sparkled Winter, bluebelled Spring, And countless nightingales to sing. They’re so unlike the nettled lairs, These natures tamed and human-made – So banish the gnats and moles and crows To bark-brown field where anarchy grows.
Along the canal, they are hugging the banks, To be keeping well-out of the slow shipping-lane, With their gear-stick flower-buds breaking the surface – Tightly wound and so yellow-with-purpose. They open like eye-stalks on periscopes-shanks While their landing-pad leaf-pods are drumming with rain – And their previous blossoms are brewing-up brandy For drawing in bees like a backwater dandy.
Cookmaid with Still Life of Vegetables & Fruit by Nathaniel Bacon
The Vegetable Plot
Betty Fry loves butterflies, But hates the Brussels sprout. She helps her grandad with his plot, And tends the veggies for the pot. She picks the beans when of a size, And pours the can to ease the drought, She pulls the slugs off lettuce heads, And wheedles weeds from out the beds. Now Grandad Fry can grow a prize In marrows, long and stout – But most of all his garden’s fare Are brassicas, to grin and bear.
Betty Fry loves butterflies, And that’s why she helps out – She sees them flutter round the plot, And wishes she could name the lot. But there is one to which she’s wise, There’s one for which she’s on the scout And where its caterpillars tread, She leaves them be and sees them fed For they shall be her silent spies To bring an end to sauerkraut, The scourge of Brussels ev’rywhere – Her Cabbage Whites shall shred them bare !
Rhyming Couplets 