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
Poor John Clare.
I was, yet strangely now
I am once more.
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
Cheers Joe. Congrats Becca.
Welcome Hazel Henrietta!
Two dark eyes – not too much hair
Share your birthday with John Clare.
Just halftime in the World Cup match
Perfect time for a chick to hatch.
Like wide-bodied aeroplanes
Threading through the New York sky
They navigate with seeming ease
Between green pillars metre-high
Heavy-laden, hear them come
With their terrifying hum
Crashing into tower tops
Assaulting all the rooftop shops
Religiously they work to please their God
Or queen of honey bees
Luckily only a lavender heaven
Not another nine eleven…
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
Hope heaven is an avian place
Or has a few cats – and Uncle Jack…
Monica Allen (1920 – 2017)
photo: Jon Edgar, Overmead, 2014
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…
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…
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)
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!”
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…
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.