I Was

I was. Yet what I was
Now occupies the world
My rhymes and songs
Of flowers, fields and birds
Are passed about and heard…
Beneath the summer cushions
Where I lie
I hear the chancel ring
With Decent Scrapers
Celebrating
Poor John Clare.
I was, yet strangely now
I am once more.

Helpston Church
July 13, 2017

 

Especially poignant in that this was probably Rob’s last poem. Please leave your memories of Rob here or send them through the contact form to be incorporated.

Robin Robertson Edgar
5.3.36 – 19.7.17 

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Monica’s Friends

Monica Allen is the first name in our address book

And putting a line through it

Feels a sad and final kind of thing

 

We remember Overmead as a birdwatcher’s heaven

Even though her feline ‘boys’

Were her dearly loved companions

 

Goodbye Monica

Hope heaven is an avian place

Or has a few cats – and Uncle Jack…

2014 Monica Feb

Monica Allen (1920 – 2017)

 

 

photo: Jon Edgar, Overmead, 2014

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Date with Duffy

Though I find some of her works
‘A bit of a toughie’
I paid a tenner to go and hear
Carol Ann Duffy
The poem I really appreciate
Is Mrs Darwin, from The World’s Wife
It’s short, pithy and even uses rhyme
It’s The Most
And now, as a boast
I can swear I’ve had a date
With the Poet Laureate…

The Magic Cans

Seven tiny watering cans
Now hang from Sammy’s shed
Silhouettes of ivory white
Against dark ivy-ed hedge
Their solar panel’s planted near
Preparing for the night
Then seven gleaming watering cans
Will make a magic sight…

Amber’s Lambs

Amber’s lambs sang “skip skip skippety
Skip skip skippety hop”
But our boat’s moored
By a field of sheep
And the lambs at skipping ain’t much cop.
They’re good at giving
An occasional bleat
Which may mean
“Skipping so hurts me feet!”

Staffs and Worcs Canal

Canalling through the countryside
Hands get rather ropey-fied
Using hemp cream smooths them down
And fits rough boaters for the town.
Canal folk don’t own house or lands
But even bargees like nice hands…

Houseman Homage

My cherry tree has twigs not boughs
But still provokes occasional “wow”s.
Growing beside my stepping stones,
It sometimes gets some peevish moans.
Unwary guests need to be told
To “mind those petals – my white gold”!
Until by April’s end they’re set;
Blossom has so short a let.

Houseman died as I was born
And, now my bible span is gone
I’m taking his advice to heart
And view my tree as living art.