Three little dogs,
twelve little feet,
one virginal beach,
as the tide moves out of reach.
Given no more than a few minutes
of running to and fro,
there is no part of the revealed sand
that doesn’t have a paw-print show.
Holes have been dug,
ragged rocks run ‘round,
and all can be discovered
from the tracks on the ground.
Three tired dogs,
twelve tired legs,
“We deserve a biscuit treat!”
the spokesdog says.
I just found out
that my welly boot leaks
now I’ve got a wet foot;
well, fancy that!
I’m in Hannafore.
“What for?” you ask.
To practice my semaphore,
whilst wearing my new pinafore,
that I’ve never worn before,
at least, not before dawn before.
Then I’m off to Looe.
“What there to do?” you ask.
To do what a man just has to do;
he has to see a sea-going gull, or two,
or maybe a couple of thousand –
there are countless, to be sure;
and I’m sure I counted seventeen,
and there were many, many more.
Later, I went back to Hannafore,
to practice my semaphore,
whilst still wearing my new pinafore,
as I had so recently done before.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Hannafore, #Looe, #nonsense, #poetry. #poem, #silly, Cornwall
It isn’t Love Island;
and it isn’t really Looe Island;
it’s St. George’s Island
that I love to catch
in the pictures I take.
The sentry in red
was easily bled
by an arrow
I fired from my bow.
Graeme Sandford 