Multi-coloured motorboat, roaring out of harbour
Heading south from Pafos in the burning glare
With a cargo of harnesses, winch-rope, parasail
And petrified passengers wriggling in the air…
Narrow boat ‘Grasshopper’, N.W out of Worcester
Threading through the locks on the Droitwich Ring
With a cargo of library books, Scrabble board, binoculars,
Stout plank for accidents like bridges that don’t swing …
(With apologies to Masefield)
When has Winter’s song been sung?
When do we know that Spring has sprung?
Was the primrose the first sign?
Daffodils or celandine?
Perhaps the lawn needing a mow
As all that’s green begins to show –
Willows, early chestnut buds,
Nettles pushing through the mud?
But the best of all the greens
April’s the month for the hornbeam.
When it’s softest shade it shows,
Springs here – everybody knows!
My neighbour has a hornbeam tree-
I’m glad she’s living next to me.
Her tree’s a sight hat glads my eye
And tells me surely Spring is nigh.
Haloed by Hartnell, hailed by great and small;
Her justly famous wave and smile were known and loved by all.
Her ways were loving, quiet and Good –
A model of grandmother hood;
Stately, gracious, Royal though I Royal born,
Her kindness,constancy and spunk
Put other royals to scorn.
She stood enpinnacled above the venom’d pens
That massacre her lesser, frailer kin.
Exemplifying a monarchy
Built strong on popularity…
This was for your mother
But you share her royal name.
You have followed in her footsteps
But outdone her Royal game.
With all your quiet qualities,
With all your queenly art,
You’ve now replaced your mother
And hold the nation’s heart.
The Bard of Billingshurst
Because of Carrie, Caitrin, Kate
And Rozzi, Jenna too
I’m in no need of daffodils
To form my jocund crew.
I never wander like a cloud
Or stride to Brighton Pier
Unless I’ve got a Jem or Hal,
A Leon, Ruben, Mia –
Frisking, scooting merrily
Or copying my funny walk;
Plopping pebbles in the sea;
Delighting me with child’s-eye talk.
Poor William found inspiring flowers
To turn to poets’ gold
But grandchildren turn countless hours
To priceless gems to hold…
The hell with all those daffodils:
I’m happy with my Jacks and Jill’s !
(Apologies to Jon, Lance, Dan, Nic and Ben, even if you did help slightly!)
(Men of Harlech if you wish to sing)
Here’s the man who conquered Scotland!
Both his mates are best forgotten.
One fell off and banged his bottom.
Poor Chris hacked it not…
Miles and miles of mountain passes.
Murder on ones thighs and arses.
Spills on gravel, mud and grasses.
Gretna marks the spot.
At the rides beginning,
Dan was nearly singing.
Ayr ahead, a Crofthead bed
‘Twas cycle bells were ringing.
See Loch Fyne and fair Gairlochy
Dornoch Firth with mountains rocky.
John o’ Groats – we’re feeling cocky.
Richard earns his Ode!
Muller was Casca, striking first
Then Klose, Kroos, Khedira took their turns
With Schurrle delivering the final blow,
As goalmouth aped the bloodstained Capitol
With echoes of those seven Roman knives…
But why did they select J. Cesar for goalie?