April 10, 2014

 

 

 Oh, Hamish darling

I have heard that Sandy

has developed foot rot

and may finish up bandy.

 

It’s just a rumour

I heard it too.

It’s the latest trend

to paint trotters cobalt blue.

 

Sandy picked it up

from her cousins kids

when acting the goat

on a night out on the skids.

 

So don’t fret over her hooves

of bright dolly blue.

It’ll never catch on, and

gives her something to do.

 

I have to cut her some slack,

on her Ewes night out.

I keep my mutton chops shut,

if I know what I’m about.

 

Oh, Hamish darling,

you wise moorside herald.

Did you inherit your tact

from great uncle Gerald?

 

You hack these hills

like a satellite,

yet no mobile network

is there in sight!

 

You flatter my wisdom

but when the swamps came,

I had little choice,

other than, to up my game.

 

And those wind turbines

still a constant pain.

If they fell on our heads

we’d all become insane.

 

Our loyal shepherdess

and chief hill protector,

ever watchful too

with her metal detector.

 

patrols these woods

knowing a little prick

from her magic wand

will do the trick.

 

She also zaps the poachers

who quake with fear,

becoming a tasered melt down

from her lethal spear.

 

It gives us peace of mind

knowing too that the deer,

also our trusted friends,

have nothing to fear.

 

So all things equal

life is pretty good.

We coped with the floods

and the wretched mud.

 

And lambing time

has brought the sun

which for Sandy and I

as grandparents is fun.

 

And with human hikers,

again in our field, we find.

To ‘mint sauce’ jokes once more,

we’ve become resigned.

 

 

 

 

In each bud a secret;

a life of hidden power.

In each second savoured;

another fulfilled hour.

 

In each wish, a yearning

for a recreated past unchanged.

In each dream, a voyage

and a mind left disarranged.

 

 

 

 

and once on that path;

a slippery slope,

where exposure reigns

and battles with hope.

 

And once caught in a trap

that becomes a blind alley,

always a price to pay

in that darkened valley.

 

 

 

April 9, 2014

 

 

How so bizarre

when truth detection

follows stolen text

about false affection.

 

Just the latest twist

in air-lifted lines.

Unsettled slumber

for such concubines.

 

 

 

 

 

He says he is staying neutral.

He is sitting on the fence.

He wants to remain diplomatic,

by not causing any offence.

 

He is absolutely in agreement.

He thinks you both are right.

Through gritted teeth he is smiling,

with both thumbs raised in delight.

 

He can clearly see your points of view;

both of which, he says, have some merit.

Though he’d gladly bang your heads together,

and at times, both of you disinherit.

 

He is in a ‘no win’ situation;

In truth he couldn’t give a toss.

He doesn’t want to be implicated

in case your problems become his loss.

 

So he puts on that nervous smile,

each time he asks to be excused.

He just wants out of the situation

as he’s feeling quite bemused.

 

He knows he’d become a cropper

if only one of you he could please.

So silence being his saviour

no answer from him, will you squeeze.

 

 

 

 

 

I read something only yesterday             

that made me think of you.

Today I received four photographs;

the writing on the envelope, I knew.

The snaps devoid of people;

one being of a dining table

laid out for Sunday lunch

whilst another had an empty sofa

near a vase with tulips in a bunch.

A third was of a large picture

hanging over a kitchen sink bowl.

The fourth, of course, contained

the window to your soul.

There was nothing written

on the reverse sides,

nor even a letter attached.

But I knew instinctively

you’d read the same article

and thought of me, and the

photo’s despatched.

The feeling was uncanny,

and proved to me once more,

that keeping in touch mentally

is as good as banging on any door.

 

  

 

 

You’ll have to leave.

I’m selling up.

My life is moving on.

 

You need to grow

outside this space.

It’s best that you move on.

 

Such harmony

within these walls.

How sad, when we move on.

 

Such depths of sorrow

must we embrace,

when finally we move on.

 

 

 

 

During times of forward thinking,

old thoughts flood the brain.

The mind so rich with new ideas,

cannot dismiss a past refrain.

 

When caught up in a revolving circle;

the head, a kaleidoscopic churn.

Where ideas put on the back burner

are about to make a return.

 

 

 

 

Let him rule.

Let him win.

Life is much easier

when we see him grin.

 

Let him ride.

Let him decide.

Like a fragrant thicko

sit by his side.

 

Let him expand

his point of view.

For the subtle winner

in the end, is you.

 

 

 

 

We used to snip the corner off a Jubbly

and suck out the colour, until it was pure ice.

And strawberry Mivvi’s with an ice cream centre,

at the time, also tasted very nice.

 

 

 

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