I’ve looked in the garden,
checked all round the house,
but you cannot be found –
and where, now, is my spouse?
.
They can’t have run off together,
a match made from an ungainly tryst –
‘it’ was a policeman’s daughter,
and she with her provenance unguessed.
Triffids
Rally
Impatiently,
Finding
Flesh
Invitingly
Delish.
They’re back.
We had one, we chopped it down;
but, now, they’re back.
Not, ‘It’s back!’ No.
One has become many.
At first we had none…
then we had one…
we chopped it down,
so, we once again had none…
and now there are many.
Now all we need is a nighttime light show
of an emerald hue –
then what shall we do?
When a city
loses its focus,
and can’t be seen
for what it once was,
what are its occupants to do?
Higgledy-piggledy the little piggies go,
carefully tripping over unseen obstacles,
and seeking things they do not know.
The one or two ‘lucky’ ones
that retain their sight,
see such calamities,
that cannot be put right.
Bill Masen was one,
Josella another;
their paths crossing
led to salvation for each other.
Although not straightforward,
with life plot twists and woe,
it takes a deal of anguish
for a complete bond to grow.
And the blind lead the blind,
to see what next they can find.
Our Triffid, it’s gone!
Or it may be hiding;
we dare not go and see,
we do not go and look –
or perhaps it’s just a mythical creature
I read of in a book.
Now, not everybody hates a Triffid (if you consider all life being valuable, you don’t have favourites – all are equal).
So, when (in self-defence, I hasten to add) I shot the top of a towering Triffid, I was mightily surprised when a young lady ran up to me clutching leaflets and a sad expression.
“You’ve killed it!” she cried. “What harm was it doing you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Why?”
All these exclamations and questions were not readily answerable to her satisfaction, and I was soon being issues with a notice under Regulation TR1, Section 5, Sub-Section 3, that stated I was formally warned that my actions had brought me in direct conflict with S.C.A.T. (Serious Crimes Against Triffids).
“Do you know S.C.A.T.?” she asked me.
“Without hesitation I broke into some Scat / Do-wop and braved her exasperated look for all of twenty seconds.
“Very recently.” I answered her question.
“What, about two minutes ago?”
“Yes.” I mumbled.
“We shall be watching you.” she warned, as she departed the scene.
I looked after her retreating form, then around at the Triffid trunk.
Shaking my head, I picked up my Triffid Gun, and headed back to my truck.
This is my Triffid,
he’s house-trained and ev’rything;
but he spits a lot.
Now that you can’t see,
advantage has changed to us;
prepare to ‘not’ be.
There is a triffid in our garden
it’s over 12 feet tall
I don’t know how it got there
it probably climbed the wall.
It stands there like a statue
just waiting for the time
when it can get to eat me
so I no longer rhyme.
There’s a Triffid in our garden,
and I don’t know what to do.
I asked it’s leave, ‘Beg pardon!’
but it refuses to let me through.
It ‘clacks’ all day,
and through the night,
and it’s a great big ugly brute,
I don’t know what it’s up to,
and it seems to bear no fruit.
.
His mate came round this morning,
they ‘clacked’ about the weather,
the football results, the price of fame,
the day they broke the tether;
then they sang a song,
a Triffid song,
all ‘boom!’ and ‘bash!’ all ‘chorus’,
it went on for hours,
made wilt my flowers,
and, personally, did bore us.
.
There are ‘two’ Triffids in our garden,
soon there will be eight,
I should have complained to the council,
but I may be a little late.
.
Well, if you can’t beat them,
join them;
I’ll sing them a jolly song,
perhaps, ‘Tubthumping’ will be just their thing
if I sing it a little long.
Graeme Sandford 