Well, what a lovely day, today is,
and it’s the only today that we’ve got,
it owns a bucket full of weather,
which is really rather a lot.
I’m out now in the rain,
and the wind, and the damp, and the cold,
it’s a bit of a joke, the weather,
one that’s never growing old.
There’s fog and mist and mizzle,
all for a soul to endure;
and, betwixt the frost and drizzle,
there’s another bucket more.
Kevnisen the spider
(known to his mates as Kev)
left home to join the priesthood,
taking residence in the church,
where he grew best friends with the Rev
and on Sundays
upon the rostrum he did perch.
Why do they call me Jonathan,
when my name is Syd;
is it because of that book they read
when they were but a kid?
Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
by Richard Bach it was;
and how do I, a gull, know this?
Well, you may ask,
and I should not tell,
but, suffice it to say,
I’ve read that book as well.
Bude, when viewed from above,
is better by far
than Padstow viewed from below.
A quiet Sunday morning walk,
with just the sound of flittering birds,
as the dogs and I traverse the country lanes.
Further on, the cry of new-born lambs
from a field, a distance away,
that is dotted with many off-white clouds of fleece.
Other fields have grazing cows,
quieter in their ruminations,
while yet others are carpeted with growing crops of an unknown type.
Two horses freely digest their findings,
conversing sparingly with their neighbours, another herd of grazing cows.
I tip my hat to the morning,
and offer thanks
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #birds, #Cows, #Horses, #Lambs, #Lanes, #poetry. #poem, #Sheep, #Sunday, #Walking, Cornwall, nature, prose
The Cornish chuff flew from Slough to Peterborough; he landed on a bough, and said, ‘Enough is enough, for now.’ Through the rough night the Chough did cough; but feeling better come the morning, to Loughborough he flew, to see a roof he knew. Later that afternoon, he did go from Loughborough, back to Slough, to Crewe, then to Looe.
on Stowe’s Hill,
isn’t made of cheese,
and has no visible knees.
Yet, it exists,
upon a hill,
still – very still.
You can tell by the gills
of the gulls
whether they are Jacks
Unless gulls don’t have gills.
I have checked:
a gull has no gills,
they are not fish,
and, probably, never were.
The plumage is the thing
to catch the gender of the… gull.
But, even then, only an expert,
or a very experienced non-expert
can truly tell.
Well, who knew? Not I,
They used to be called Mews,
and went around in ones or twos –
that was long, long, long ago,
and they are now called that
that I know.
But, if you hear a poet
saying that his muse has left him (or her)
it might (but shouldn’t) occur
that he is talking about
I have to doubt.
I’m not going out on a limb,
but I think I can see him;
he’s the county in the Red and white stripey jumper,
and the red and white stripey bobble hat,
on the far left, to the south west,
also out on a limb –
as it looks a little bit like a leg.
Holly the Cornish Witch lived a long, long life.
Living in Cornwall, as she did, in the sixteenth century, as she did, meant that witches usually went out in a roar of flames. But, being Cornwall, which it was, the superstitious Cornish thought that it was mightily unlucky to burn Holly, which it wasn’t.
Therefore, they were very reluctant to burn Holly the witch, which she was, and so they didn’t.
Holly the Witch, c.1517 – 24th March 1603.
She died of natural causes, which they were, upon the very day that Good Queen Bess, which she wasn’t, died.