One day as I walked by the Liffey,
I was feeling a little bit squiffy,
Till a car jumped a light,
Which gave me a fright,
And sobered me up in a jiffy.
Monday, 17 December 2012
Thursday, 29 November 2012
First pet
My cat
was called Tanya.
She was afraid of mice,
and her favourite food was cheese.
Dead now.
was called Tanya.
She was afraid of mice,
and her favourite food was cheese.
Dead now.
Thursday, 15 November 2012
Winter morning
Like a squirrel caught in the open
a dream scuttles away
and I am awake in the winter gloom.
I glance at the bedside clock display;
myopic eyes in this darkened room
have me reaching for glasses – six something.
Not yet seven. Still time to rest.
6: so rounded, female, comforting;
shape of an armchair snug and blessed.
The clock's a pitiless device,
will flick to seven before my eyes.
7: angular, sparse, precise;
the call to work, the cue to rise;
an arrow pointing to the day;
the sign for dreams to flee away.
a dream scuttles away
and I am awake in the winter gloom.
I glance at the bedside clock display;
myopic eyes in this darkened room
have me reaching for glasses – six something.
Not yet seven. Still time to rest.
6: so rounded, female, comforting;
shape of an armchair snug and blessed.
The clock's a pitiless device,
will flick to seven before my eyes.
7: angular, sparse, precise;
the call to work, the cue to rise;
an arrow pointing to the day;
the sign for dreams to flee away.
Friday, 26 October 2012
Uncommissioned whale haiku
Ocean's prince rises,
blows, breathes, dives; air is life, but
water is living.
blows, breathes, dives; air is life, but
water is living.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Sunset in Tenerife
A spear of gunmetal grey cloud
thrust across the sky, over the darkening Atlantic,
and dropped not a drop of rain on us,
an impotent threat emerging from a dark coven
of storm clouds to the north,
while still the setting sun brightened a distant island,
left patches of sky Kingfisher blue,
and turned less obstreperous clouds
to salmon pink.
thrust across the sky, over the darkening Atlantic,
and dropped not a drop of rain on us,
an impotent threat emerging from a dark coven
of storm clouds to the north,
while still the setting sun brightened a distant island,
left patches of sky Kingfisher blue,
and turned less obstreperous clouds
to salmon pink.
Monday, 22 October 2012
Carry on
He walks his dog on Merrow Common.
Hard to say which is more arthritic, who puffs more,
but when he stiffly fumbles off the lead,
the aged beast breaks into a shambling trot, and
follows the memory of exciting odours.
And day by day he carries on,
and walks his dog on Merrow Common.
She makes a pot of tea for her guests,
half blind now, but knowing the place of each cup,
each spoon and strainer and sugar cube.
And she asks after their children,
and shares their grandchildren's successes,
and they leave, affirmed and cheered,
and she tidies up and carries on.
Hard to say which is more arthritic, who puffs more,
but when he stiffly fumbles off the lead,
the aged beast breaks into a shambling trot, and
follows the memory of exciting odours.
And day by day he carries on,
and walks his dog on Merrow Common.
She makes a pot of tea for her guests,
half blind now, but knowing the place of each cup,
each spoon and strainer and sugar cube.
And she asks after their children,
and shares their grandchildren's successes,
and they leave, affirmed and cheered,
and she tidies up and carries on.
Sunday, 23 September 2012
The expert
My expertise is pleonasm.
You see, I think it good
That every little thing I say
Is fully understood.
I wouldn't like to think that you
Had not quite got my gist;
I'd hate to think that any of
My wisdom might be missed.
In case you haven't got it yet,
Then what I'm trying to say,
Is that I'd rather my thoughts weren't
The ones that got away.
Perhaps I haven't made my point,
So just to make it clear,
Not fully being understood's
My deepest, darkest fear.
Have you grasped what I'm saying yet?
I don't think it's absurd;
I just don't want my meaning lost
For want of one more word.
I fear I haven't said enough;
I'll give it one more go,
I like to use sufficient words
To spell out all I know.
My warders say that I should stop,
But if you're still not sure
These seven verses are enough,
I'll write you twenty more!
You see, I think it good
That every little thing I say
Is fully understood.
I wouldn't like to think that you
Had not quite got my gist;
I'd hate to think that any of
My wisdom might be missed.
In case you haven't got it yet,
Then what I'm trying to say,
Is that I'd rather my thoughts weren't
The ones that got away.
Perhaps I haven't made my point,
So just to make it clear,
Not fully being understood's
My deepest, darkest fear.
Have you grasped what I'm saying yet?
I don't think it's absurd;
I just don't want my meaning lost
For want of one more word.
I fear I haven't said enough;
I'll give it one more go,
I like to use sufficient words
To spell out all I know.
My warders say that I should stop,
But if you're still not sure
These seven verses are enough,
I'll write you twenty more!
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
Whale song
Leviathan, gliding through the quantum ocean,
clicks and whoops his liquid roar
and sends his many voices echoing.
The kelps and sea-grass shiver, feeding in his wake,
and plankton dance and rest and dance and sway.
We too may hear his song and understand
no words, but feel the brooding, soaring love
that will not let life sink and fail.
clicks and whoops his liquid roar
and sends his many voices echoing.
The kelps and sea-grass shiver, feeding in his wake,
and plankton dance and rest and dance and sway.
We too may hear his song and understand
no words, but feel the brooding, soaring love
that will not let life sink and fail.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Sharing the peace in church
I am nothing
I am a shadow, briefly darkening
the gaze of those who greet me,
grip my hand,
and before our fingers part,
before their lips cease speaking words of peace,
glance away, seeking someone real,
someone worth some warmth.
I am a shadow, briefly darkening
the gaze of those who greet me,
grip my hand,
and before our fingers part,
before their lips cease speaking words of peace,
glance away, seeking someone real,
someone worth some warmth.
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Theology of welcome
(inspired by Padraig O Tuama's opening session at Greenbelt 2012)
You are here: yes, I am.
I am here, learning to welcome life's sticking points,
her intractability, her stubborn fractiousness.
I am here, welcoming an aching knee,
inwardly salaaming the man in front of me,
the man who won't sit down, who blocks my view.
I am here, nodding a familiar greeting to my irritability,
making peace with a toilet that will not flush,
a too small car park and two meagre pillows.
And I am still here, learning to gaze beyond,
to greet other, less insistent strangers.
Greeting the gifted amateurs, strumming of feisty women, and grandad's ghost,
helloing the consummate pros, with voices
clear as glass, and rich as wine,
singing of shops and longshot bets,
tally-oh, tally-oh, the grinder.
And smiling shalom to the genius Scot,
in lime green jacket and salmon pink shirt,
who tells of the untamed, angry, funny Lord,
who told Nathaniel,
Stick around kid: you ain't seen nothing yet.
You are here: yes, I am.
You are here: yes, I am.
I am here, learning to welcome life's sticking points,
her intractability, her stubborn fractiousness.
I am here, welcoming an aching knee,
inwardly salaaming the man in front of me,
the man who won't sit down, who blocks my view.
I am here, nodding a familiar greeting to my irritability,
making peace with a toilet that will not flush,
a too small car park and two meagre pillows.
And I am still here, learning to gaze beyond,
to greet other, less insistent strangers.
Greeting the gifted amateurs, strumming of feisty women, and grandad's ghost,
helloing the consummate pros, with voices
clear as glass, and rich as wine,
singing of shops and longshot bets,
tally-oh, tally-oh, the grinder.
And smiling shalom to the genius Scot,
in lime green jacket and salmon pink shirt,
who tells of the untamed, angry, funny Lord,
who told Nathaniel,
Stick around kid: you ain't seen nothing yet.
You are here: yes, I am.
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Predator
Against dark clouds, a darker shape circles.
Buzzard? Hawk? Too high, too far to tell,
but oh, the glorious symmetry of wings, curved blades stretching either side,
black brackets making lazy circles, then hanging still, searching, stalking.
At once it loses height, and startles me
with vigorous flapping to catch another current.
Hundreds of feet below I feel heavy, stuck,
as muscle, sinew, feathers defy earth's pull;
and then, as suddenly, it stills, and hangs,
and circles lazily once more.
A while, and then it tracks off to the west.
And now I gaze at somber clouds of grey,
empty, until a flock of smaller birds,
freed to occupy the space above
dart and skit and dance, grey dots against the grey,
children playing once the knight has left the field.
Buzzard? Hawk? Too high, too far to tell,
but oh, the glorious symmetry of wings, curved blades stretching either side,
black brackets making lazy circles, then hanging still, searching, stalking.
At once it loses height, and startles me
with vigorous flapping to catch another current.
Hundreds of feet below I feel heavy, stuck,
as muscle, sinew, feathers defy earth's pull;
and then, as suddenly, it stills, and hangs,
and circles lazily once more.
A while, and then it tracks off to the west.
And now I gaze at somber clouds of grey,
empty, until a flock of smaller birds,
freed to occupy the space above
dart and skit and dance, grey dots against the grey,
children playing once the knight has left the field.
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Diamond Jubilee
Five thousand beacons lit
to honour one whose light
has burned steadily
for sixty years of service
and a lifetime of faith.
to honour one whose light
has burned steadily
for sixty years of service
and a lifetime of faith.
Sunday, 8 April 2012
Easter 2012
 |
| St Martha's on the Hill |
I wake to a glorious absurdity.
'Risen from the dead' – what divine nonsense!
Death is death, and that's it;
there is no undiscovered country,
no other shore across a final sea.
Yet twenty centuries on, twenty disciples
and one dog,
climb the hill in the morning gloaming,
as drizzle falls,
and tell the nonsense story once again,
 |
| and one dog |
that our sense isn't God's sense.
And the world over
on hills, in houses and holy places
believers throng
to greet the one who wouldn't let
death be.
The downs have disappeared into the mist.
St Martha's is a stubborn island
where shadowy trees stand sentinel,
as twenty defiant disciples and one dog
sing praise, sing praise to God amidst the gloom.
St Martha's Photo: GNU free documentation license
GFDL/CC-BY-SA
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Good Friday
Evocative names - Gethsemane, Golgotha, Emmaus,
echoing in the streets of Guildford, Godalming, Esher –
exotic relics from a quaint and bygone culture,
or eternal stations of the cross?
A garden watered with tears of blood –
Gethsemane, where love and sorrow meet,
confounding the myth of the passionless god,
greeting betrayal with tears and a kiss.
Politics and piety conspire to hang three men
with pain unthinkable, breathless, searing thirst.
The promised paradise seems far away from
the place of the skull, called Golgotha.
What's to come? A dusty road, a walk –
two, wondering at the truth of the women's report
will wait and greet a third, and wander on
and wake to broken bread and hope reborn at Emmaus.
echoing in the streets of Guildford, Godalming, Esher –
exotic relics from a quaint and bygone culture,
or eternal stations of the cross?
A garden watered with tears of blood –
Gethsemane, where love and sorrow meet,
confounding the myth of the passionless god,
greeting betrayal with tears and a kiss.
Politics and piety conspire to hang three men
with pain unthinkable, breathless, searing thirst.
The promised paradise seems far away from
the place of the skull, called Golgotha.
What's to come? A dusty road, a walk –
two, wondering at the truth of the women's report
will wait and greet a third, and wander on
and wake to broken bread and hope reborn at Emmaus.
Maundy Thursday
He'd have had his feet washed sometime,
not with rich perfume or gushing tears,
but with water, by a hard-pressed servant,
slave almost, eyes cast down, and
shoulders sagging from a lifetime's toil.
And he'd have noticed. The servant
would have mattered, have counted to him.
And he'd have stored up in his heart
how our comfort comes at others' cost,
our humanity drains as we deny the human.
That night of all nights, in the upper room,
stripped of all finery he washed our feet,
became the untermensch, beneath notice.
Peter noticed, and couldn't bear it. A kingdom
without kings, a commonwealth of servants.
Have we kept the kingdom free of slaves,
learned the hard lesson he taught to Peter,
been servants of all, and sought the lowest place?
Remember the dusty feet that stumbled and fell
carrying the heavy cross to Calvary.
not with rich perfume or gushing tears,
but with water, by a hard-pressed servant,
slave almost, eyes cast down, and
shoulders sagging from a lifetime's toil.
And he'd have noticed. The servant
would have mattered, have counted to him.
And he'd have stored up in his heart
how our comfort comes at others' cost,
our humanity drains as we deny the human.
That night of all nights, in the upper room,
stripped of all finery he washed our feet,
became the untermensch, beneath notice.
Peter noticed, and couldn't bear it. A kingdom
without kings, a commonwealth of servants.
Have we kept the kingdom free of slaves,
learned the hard lesson he taught to Peter,
been servants of all, and sought the lowest place?
Remember the dusty feet that stumbled and fell
carrying the heavy cross to Calvary.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
the belly of the whale
flotsam from the wreck of time
we drift on the endless tide
and dream of home
and dream of towers of gold
and we fear the thousand teeth
and the angry fire in the belly
of Leviathan
and the great beast ploughs on
its inexorable path
along the whale-roads
and each quantum wobble's hoovered up
like krill
the whale does not share our qualms
is not picky
will not spew out on an unforgiving beach
the warrior or the worrier
welcomes into the abyss of its jaws
the king or the craven
the lover of the other
and the lover of the same
the saint and the uncertain
to be in the belly of the whale
is to hear the heartbeat of the universe
to be at once consumed and remade
to be carried to the unknown shore
Leviathan cares both less and more than us
less for titles, tidiness, sway
and more for blood and bridges and joy
and the only hell is to be left behind
as rotting driftwood on the tide
we drift on the endless tide
and dream of home
and dream of towers of gold
and we fear the thousand teeth
and the angry fire in the belly
of Leviathan
and the great beast ploughs on
its inexorable path
along the whale-roads
and each quantum wobble's hoovered up
like krill
the whale does not share our qualms
is not picky
will not spew out on an unforgiving beach
the warrior or the worrier
welcomes into the abyss of its jaws
the king or the craven
the lover of the other
and the lover of the same
the saint and the uncertain
to be in the belly of the whale
is to hear the heartbeat of the universe
to be at once consumed and remade
to be carried to the unknown shore
Leviathan cares both less and more than us
less for titles, tidiness, sway
and more for blood and bridges and joy
and the only hell is to be left behind
as rotting driftwood on the tide
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
Whisk(e)y cake
Whisky cake, O Whisky cake!
O alcoholic, frisky cake!
Oh, had I known what lay in store,
I might have spurned you, risky cake.
In Sainsbury’s store lay requisites:
Spices, flour and fruity bits,
A pretty tin to carry you,
With flowers and hearts and such-like glitz.
A Sunday afternoon of baking,
Rubbing, stirring, sieving, shaking,
Oven heated, cake tins greased,
Oh the joys of fruit-cake making.
Savouring the rich aroma,
Amateur – that’s a misnomer –
(What is it comes before a fall?)
Give myself a chef’s diploma!
Sifted sugar, butter, zest,
Orange juice, freshly pressed,
Lastly whisky – that’s the icing,
Made with nothing but the best.
Actually, some might disagree,
About the whisky, for you see,
Tullamore Dew is not a Scotch,
But Irish whiskey, with an ‘e’.
Now the cake is good to go:
Icing like a field of snow,
Smooth and pristine. O vain cook –
Foolish braggadacio!
So the overweaning fool
Tenderly drives the cake to school,
Treads the darkened corridors,
Trips and drops it: fate so cruel!
The horror! The horror! Dark heart so sore:
Thus the world ends, with no more
Than a bang from the tin, a whimper from me:
Out of the cake tin, onto the floor.
All is not lost! The fates relent;
Though the icing's ruined, and the lid is bent,
The cake survives, the tin’s upright —
Put on hold the last lament.
A lesson in humilty,
And the advisability
Of caution in dark corridors
To guarantee tranquility.
O alcoholic, frisky cake!
Oh, had I known what lay in store,
I might have spurned you, risky cake.
In Sainsbury’s store lay requisites:
Spices, flour and fruity bits,
A pretty tin to carry you,
With flowers and hearts and such-like glitz.
A Sunday afternoon of baking,
Rubbing, stirring, sieving, shaking,
Oven heated, cake tins greased,
Oh the joys of fruit-cake making.
Savouring the rich aroma,
Amateur – that’s a misnomer –
(What is it comes before a fall?)
Give myself a chef’s diploma!
Sifted sugar, butter, zest,
Orange juice, freshly pressed,
Lastly whisky – that’s the icing,
Made with nothing but the best.
Actually, some might disagree,
About the whisky, for you see,
Tullamore Dew is not a Scotch,
But Irish whiskey, with an ‘e’.
Now the cake is good to go:
Icing like a field of snow,
Smooth and pristine. O vain cook –
Foolish braggadacio!
So the overweaning fool
Tenderly drives the cake to school,
Treads the darkened corridors,
Trips and drops it: fate so cruel!
The horror! The horror! Dark heart so sore:
Thus the world ends, with no more
Than a bang from the tin, a whimper from me:
Out of the cake tin, onto the floor.
All is not lost! The fates relent;
Though the icing's ruined, and the lid is bent,
The cake survives, the tin’s upright —
Put on hold the last lament.
A lesson in humilty,
And the advisability
Of caution in dark corridors
To guarantee tranquility.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Ash Wednesday
Does God really hate chocolate?
The temptation of Terry's All Gold,
lust for a Lion Bar, craving a Crunchie:
do these fuel the fury of a green-eyed god?
Must penitence mean pain?
Are poor souls put in peril
unless they put off pleasure:
is that what God demands each purple Lent?
Instead of giving something up we could
take something up to feed the soul;
to grow, to learn, to make, to read –
a holy hobby, a discipline of joy.
Yet, does old wisdom have its place?
Perhaps we're blind to our addictions,
and need to break their subtle hold,
a sacrifice of self to free ourselves.
The temptation of Terry's All Gold,
lust for a Lion Bar, craving a Crunchie:
do these fuel the fury of a green-eyed god?
Must penitence mean pain?
Are poor souls put in peril
unless they put off pleasure:
is that what God demands each purple Lent?
Instead of giving something up we could
take something up to feed the soul;
to grow, to learn, to make, to read –
a holy hobby, a discipline of joy.
Yet, does old wisdom have its place?
Perhaps we're blind to our addictions,
and need to break their subtle hold,
a sacrifice of self to free ourselves.
Monday, 30 January 2012
The laboratory of the spirit
The laboratory of the spirit is not,
as RS Thomas well knew,
hidden behind a coded door,
inhabited by freakish souls
in starched white robes,
but found in desert, high street, home,
as folk amidst the clatter of the day
allow the holy flame to play upon
the elemental substance of their lives.
as RS Thomas well knew,
hidden behind a coded door,
inhabited by freakish souls
in starched white robes,
but found in desert, high street, home,
as folk amidst the clatter of the day
allow the holy flame to play upon
the elemental substance of their lives.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
Notes on the Twelve days poems
So I decided to write a series of poems based loosely on 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. I realise that some of them might be obscure, so here are a few notes.
1) Eric Partridge (who had a particular interest in forces' slang) and HW Fowler were two of the greatest experts on the English language ever. I took a bit of a liberty by talking of a fowler's use of 'jesses', because a fowler actually catches birds in a net, and doesn't train them like a falconer. If only he had been HW Falconer...
2) A true story, sort of - actually it was a few days before the sales, in Debenhams in Stockport that I sat at a table next to this young woman with her child, and saw the transformation from harassed to joy-filled as her husband arrived.
3) I don't think this works - too prolix. I may revisit it.
4) I don't like this either. Too glib.
5) I'm looking forward to being at the centre Court at Wimbledon for the Men's Doubles and Ladies' singles finals.
6) I wrote this after watching a TV programme - EarthFlight - about snow geese.
7) Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Cyd Charisse, Gene Kelly, John Travolta, Billy Eliot, Darcey Bussell. A haiku seems a suitable form to evoke a swan.
8) Thomas Hardy's The Withered Arm begins with a group of milkers in an eighty-cow dairy. The description of Rhoda Brook is a far cry from the cliche of a buxom healthy young milkmaid.
9) A brave attempt, I like to think. I like the idea of the ladies dancing being flowers, but I don't think this type of visual, miniaturist descriptive poem is my strong point.
10) Pretty feeble. Needs revision.
11) A true story. Rosie and I, planning to go to church one Sunday, and then have a good two hours climbing up Ben Nevis before lunch. Unfortunately we had no idea about Scottish churches, and didn't escape till about 1 pm, and only got half way up Ben Nevis that day.
12) needs work, but I quite like some of these alliterative drummers. Make sure you read number 5 with the exact rhythm of the beginning of Mars from The Planets.
1) Eric Partridge (who had a particular interest in forces' slang) and HW Fowler were two of the greatest experts on the English language ever. I took a bit of a liberty by talking of a fowler's use of 'jesses', because a fowler actually catches birds in a net, and doesn't train them like a falconer. If only he had been HW Falconer...
2) A true story, sort of - actually it was a few days before the sales, in Debenhams in Stockport that I sat at a table next to this young woman with her child, and saw the transformation from harassed to joy-filled as her husband arrived.
3) I don't think this works - too prolix. I may revisit it.
4) I don't like this either. Too glib.
5) I'm looking forward to being at the centre Court at Wimbledon for the Men's Doubles and Ladies' singles finals.
6) I wrote this after watching a TV programme - EarthFlight - about snow geese.
7) Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Cyd Charisse, Gene Kelly, John Travolta, Billy Eliot, Darcey Bussell. A haiku seems a suitable form to evoke a swan.
8) Thomas Hardy's The Withered Arm begins with a group of milkers in an eighty-cow dairy. The description of Rhoda Brook is a far cry from the cliche of a buxom healthy young milkmaid.
9) A brave attempt, I like to think. I like the idea of the ladies dancing being flowers, but I don't think this type of visual, miniaturist descriptive poem is my strong point.
10) Pretty feeble. Needs revision.
11) A true story. Rosie and I, planning to go to church one Sunday, and then have a good two hours climbing up Ben Nevis before lunch. Unfortunately we had no idea about Scottish churches, and didn't escape till about 1 pm, and only got half way up Ben Nevis that day.
12) needs work, but I quite like some of these alliterative drummers. Make sure you read number 5 with the exact rhythm of the beginning of Mars from The Planets.
Friday, 6 January 2012
The twelfth day
1) Before the bell a bored boy's digits drum the desk.
2) The rain's rat-a-tat resounds on a ridged iron roof.
3) Slow, single drumskin strikes mark a sad ceremony.
4) The soldier's smart snare sets the squaddies' steps.
5) Timpani drum beats/ pounding out/ rhythm of Mars by/ Gustav Holst.
6) Steel drums sing of surf and sun and sand.
7) Dame Evelyn's glorious glockenspiel defies deafness.
8) Ringo's refined, not raucous R & B rings out.
9) Brilliant Crazy Keith rocked and rolled and crashed and burned.
10) Animal makes mad music mayhem on the Muppets.
11) A drumroll delivers a diva to adoring devotees.
12) Each heartbeat marks and measures our mortal span.
2) The rain's rat-a-tat resounds on a ridged iron roof.
3) Slow, single drumskin strikes mark a sad ceremony.
4) The soldier's smart snare sets the squaddies' steps.
5) Timpani drum beats/ pounding out/ rhythm of Mars by/ Gustav Holst.
6) Steel drums sing of surf and sun and sand.
7) Dame Evelyn's glorious glockenspiel defies deafness.
8) Ringo's refined, not raucous R & B rings out.
9) Brilliant Crazy Keith rocked and rolled and crashed and burned.
10) Animal makes mad music mayhem on the Muppets.
11) A drumroll delivers a diva to adoring devotees.
12) Each heartbeat marks and measures our mortal span.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
The eleventh day
The hiking couple chose a church –
(perhaps they needed more research) –
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Their jeans and tee shirts caused a shock
among the faithful pious flock
of the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The congregation had strong views,
so no-one sat within three pews
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The couple sat and prayed and heard
an elder preaching from God's word
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
They sat and heard the man intone
a sermon that was not his own
at the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Spurgeon's words, the elder took
and read to the people from a book
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The sermon dealt with Mary, who
met Jesus, as was preached to
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The text: "Supposing Him to be
the gardener" was explained for the
Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Each horticultural metaphor
that ever existed was preached on for
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
And when the eternal sermon ended
the eternal service was further extended
for the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
For now an endless psalm was sung
and all the flock gave droning tongue
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Never have human voices made
a sound more like the bagpipes, played
for the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
A man's deep bass provided the drone,
but oh, his voice was not alone
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Other chanters sang the tune
as morning gave way to afternoon
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Finally, the service done,
the people walked out one by one
from the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Their long ordeal by now had passed;
the hikers walked away at last
from the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Their plans to scale Ben Nevis' height
that day had been quite put to flight
by the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
If you just want an hour or so
of worship, then you should not go
to the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
For you will need three hours to spare
for Word and Worship, penance and prayer
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
(perhaps they needed more research) –
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Their jeans and tee shirts caused a shock
among the faithful pious flock
of the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The congregation had strong views,
so no-one sat within three pews
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The couple sat and prayed and heard
an elder preaching from God's word
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
They sat and heard the man intone
a sermon that was not his own
at the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Spurgeon's words, the elder took
and read to the people from a book
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The sermon dealt with Mary, who
met Jesus, as was preached to
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
The text: "Supposing Him to be
the gardener" was explained for the
Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Each horticultural metaphor
that ever existed was preached on for
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
And when the eternal sermon ended
the eternal service was further extended
for the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
For now an endless psalm was sung
and all the flock gave droning tongue
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Never have human voices made
a sound more like the bagpipes, played
for the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
A man's deep bass provided the drone,
but oh, his voice was not alone
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Other chanters sang the tune
as morning gave way to afternoon
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Finally, the service done,
the people walked out one by one
from the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Their long ordeal by now had passed;
the hikers walked away at last
from the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Their plans to scale Ben Nevis' height
that day had been quite put to flight
by the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
If you just want an hour or so
of worship, then you should not go
to the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
For you will need three hours to spare
for Word and Worship, penance and prayer
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
The tenth day
The leaping Lord in Chariots of Fire,
didn't disturb the champagne flutes.
The real Lord Burleigh knocked match boxes
off his hurdles with his racing boots.
Lord Coe had different hurdles to clear
(once his own racing days were done) –
persuading voting technocrats
to give the games to old London.
didn't disturb the champagne flutes.
The real Lord Burleigh knocked match boxes
off his hurdles with his racing boots.
Lord Coe had different hurdles to clear
(once his own racing days were done) –
persuading voting technocrats
to give the games to old London.
Monday, 2 January 2012
The ninth day
Black-eyed Susan oh so tall –
with hair so golden dances to the sun.
Ruddy-cheeked Poppy would have gladly danced
tall in the fields to the harvest moon,
but when half the seed of Europe died,
she could only weep and bow her head.
Marigold dressed in her golden ruff,
can only manage a slow pavane,
but sinuous Lily swoops and sways,
in flowing robes of white and pink.
Gentle Daisy with her sisters,
blithely steps her country dance,
and bold Viola's three-coloured dress
swirls as she waltzes to her heart's ease.
While Iris, slender, tall and proud,
struts a quadrille with sisters three,
Heather cavorts in the wild, wide moors.
But English Rose, the belle of the ball,
in red, white or yellow outshines them all.
with hair so golden dances to the sun.
Ruddy-cheeked Poppy would have gladly danced
tall in the fields to the harvest moon,
but when half the seed of Europe died,
she could only weep and bow her head.
Marigold dressed in her golden ruff,
can only manage a slow pavane,
but sinuous Lily swoops and sways,
in flowing robes of white and pink.
Gentle Daisy with her sisters,
blithely steps her country dance,
and bold Viola's three-coloured dress
swirls as she waltzes to her heart's ease.
While Iris, slender, tall and proud,
struts a quadrille with sisters three,
Heather cavorts in the wild, wide moors.
But English Rose, the belle of the ball,
in red, white or yellow outshines them all.
The eighth day
Thirty-two teats on eight bulbous udders;
twenty-four legs on eight milking stools;
sixteen pails on eight wooden yokes;
eight pretty, buxom maids on eight country lanes.
But that was a yesterday that maybe never was.
Rough hands, scrawny cows, filthy dark barns;
low pay, no hope, working long long days,
broken stools, dirty pails, worn-out working folk.
And what of today; where are the buxom maids?
Two thousand cows in four loafing barns,
one giant parlour with five hundred stalls,
twenty technicians keep ten thousand litres flowing.
And ten million cartons sit in ten million fridges.
twenty-four legs on eight milking stools;
sixteen pails on eight wooden yokes;
eight pretty, buxom maids on eight country lanes.
But that was a yesterday that maybe never was.
Rough hands, scrawny cows, filthy dark barns;
low pay, no hope, working long long days,
broken stools, dirty pails, worn-out working folk.
And what of today; where are the buxom maids?
Two thousand cows in four loafing barns,
one giant parlour with five hundred stalls,
twenty technicians keep ten thousand litres flowing.
And ten million cartons sit in ten million fridges.
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