Tag Archives: Cornwall

Another ‘Never Say ‘Rabbit’ in a Boat’ Poem.

Never say it;

for who knows what may befall

the crew, passengers, and boat.

It may be hard to stay afloat

when your dog jumps ship,

when you let the ‘R-word’ slip,

and it answers to the call.

‘As I looked through a window’

I looked out upon the world,

and the world looked back at me;

I saw a seagull flying by

heading for the sea;

I called out ‘Gull, where be you to?”

he looked a while at me

and answered “I be off to Looe,

it’s time now for my tea.”

And I was happy at that.

A seagull’s lament

I may think a pasty is a crab

I may think that a dace is a dab –

it’s all food to me.

Do you see?

You may call me unhip

for my love of a chip;

or names worse than that

that you call –

I’ve heard them all.

You may shoo me off,

when I’m walking about

like a toff;

or lash out with a foot

but, I gracefully put

to flight,

and line you up for a present from aloft,

“Bombs away!”

Revenge is sweet,

and my landing is soft.

“Enough! Enough!” said the Cornish Chough.

“Enough! Enough!” said the Cornish Chough.

“I’ve seen it all, from blag to bluff,

from Land’s End

to the Tamar’s tuff,

all around the county!”

spoke the Cornish Chough –

in a voice, some say,

that seemed rather rough.

The Seagull Flies

The seagull flies,

and, having flown,

espies a chip, a pasty, scone;

whereupon, said gull calculates the angles

required for a heist,

and gains a Vegan Moroccan pasty,

very tasty, yet quite spiced.


The gull had never heard

of Montezuma’s Revenge –

until now.

And gull pledged to gain his own revenge upon

the silly people whilst the Sun it shone.


So, flying high, it chose its victim

aimed, and released, splattering poor Tim

from Sunderland,

who wore his badge of pride

with warmth inside,

and white-splotched coat

that in the Sun it dried,

forming a new pattern for e’er to be,

of his being a target

at Looe-on-Sea.

In the Yurt 2525

Ziggy Zager and Evie Evans we’re doing some serious glamping in Far East Cornwall for a week towards the back end of the season, when the weather changed for the worse.

“Hey, Zigs!” expressed Evie, “The weather’s changed for the worse!”

Zigs looked out of an alternative window to the one Evie was peering through and observed that it was indeed so.

“It might be a duvet day, Evs! Certainly not a day for exploring the locale.”

Luckily, the yurt they were in had a decent log burner and a plentiful supply of fuel. Building up the heating so it could be self-sufficient for a fair old time, Ziggy and Evie headed back to the safety of the bed.

All around the glamping site many others were similarly bunkering down for the foreseeable.

“Oh, no, it’s the Exercise Men!” – Extended.

One day, at about three of the clock in the morning, as the smugglers were offloading their latest cargo of tax-avoidance items at a small inlet upon the island of Looe (aka St. George’s Island, Looe Island, or, way back in time, St. Michael’s Island), there was a voice heard from the lookout, old George Penwithit, his voice still loud and doughty even after seventy-three winters and almost as many summers. ‘Boat approaching!’

‘Oh, no, it’s the Exercise Men!’ exclaimed William Telmother, the youngest of the gang.

Twenty minutes later they were all doing press-ups, star jumps, and crunches, before they were to run two laps of the island.

Whilst leaning against a 7-bar gate

I look over

(for I am tall enough)

the gate,

and see what there is beyond:

fields, distant woods, lone trees,

cloud-occluded skies;

a part of South East Cornwall

that has melded with my heart;

I am happy to have come here;

and I love the silent Sun

that beams down upon

these little acres.

The day we move to Cornwall

The day we moved to Cornwall

from Cornwall,

will be a day indeed;

moving ‘within’ the county

will be a bounty,

for us,

and just the thing we need.

Looe Island Haiku

This is Looe Island,

it looks like a schoolboy’s cap,

and the gulls live there.