Category Archives: Poems–

A little Tweet…

“For two days they were grafting,
Working hard on Graham Way;
Pruning shrubs and clearing brambles,
From morning’s start ’til end of day.
The result is quite amazing;
Now that jungle — overgrown—,
Has been sheared off to ground level…
But it’s left some without a home.
I watched and tried to Twitter,
But I found no one could hear;
With no signal by the culvert ,
My protests fell upon deaf ears.
I tried to strike up conversation,
To express my whim and wish,
But my acquaintance couldn’t follow,
He only knew Pigeon English.
The people overlooking,
Seem to think it’s a success,
That they’re Robin’ all the hedgerows;
It’s hard to Swallow — it’s a mess!
We may have to tell the Council,
In their meeting hall one night;
Mrs. Finch and Mr. Starling,
Could take some Bunting; share our plight.
They’ll know that we mean business,
When we all start to Crow,
And the Tits within our group,
Will say: ‘We want you all to know—
While you’re discussing all your Chiff-Chaff,
Our agenda slot’s quite Swift,
Please don’t treat us all like Pheasants,
Our morale just needs a lift.
We’ve come here with decorum,
We’re not wont to shout and ‘Owl,
And we’d like to just be treated,
As you treat the water fowl.
We’ve lost our habitation,
And our berry bush so when —–
Will you ever hear our voices—?’
Signed—Your servant,
Jenny Wren.”


It was a conversation in the online Scrabble game with my friends in Australia yesterday which prompted me to reproduce this little poem which I wrote for our village Forum a couple of years ago..

Wendy told me “Our neighbours are having arborists arriving in the morning to lop some branches from large trees on their property and the men will need to come into our yard to cut overhanging branches of their Pecan tree…

“For many years we enjoyed collecting hundreds of Pecans but, unfortunately, no more…

“The sulphur-crested Cockatoos discovered the bounty a few years back and every year, at the exact time the nuts have matured, they arrive in their numbers and have a ball…..

“Another beautiful bird we have visiting our yard from time to time is the Rainbow Lorikeet…take a look at the ‘Feeding Frenzy’ of these birds on You Tube!… They love feeding on the nectar from our bottlebrushes when in flower and also the banksias…”

This morning’s chain of chat from Sarah and Wendy had this heartwarming snippet amongst their messages:

“The birds know what kind of face to put on when they look at us and exactly what kind of pathetic birdy noises to make. It usually melts my heart and they watch through the  kitchen window as I open the fridge…

“One of our Butcher Birds, the youngest one whose feathers are still brown but will turn black when he is older, is very playful and will often drop a seed pod from a liquid amber tree onto the patio. Maybe it is his way of saying thank you for his meals—and please keep them coming—;)”

Is it any wonder that, with just that little example of the messages I receive daily from Australia, a country which has revealed so much of itself to me because of a simple word game, I yearn for the unreachable goal of being able to beam myself into that garden and explore a piece of the-other-side-of-the-globe for myself—?

Thank you, Sarah and Wendy, for all your lovely messages —  I know I’ll never get across that Equator—so, content as I am with enjoying the company of family and friends here, I’ll try to send tastes of life in England to you in the way that you do for me… 🙂 xx


When Nobody Cared…

Following on from the previous post, ‘Sunset at The Forum’, I should have explained that few of the members used their actual name when publishing comments…

There was an array of pseudonyms but, somehow, even without meeting their owners, we could get a measure of each character’s personality from their style of writing…

This little poem was inspired by the story of an injured rat, contributed to the Forum by a gentleman who modestly called himself ‘Nobody’…


Once there lived a little ratty,
In a village near a town,
But the folk around disliked him,
And it got poor ratty down.

He was quite an entertainer,
And as chatty as could be,
But he talked his right hind leg off,
And was left with only three.

‘Twas underneath some decking,
He had built his little home,
But one day he was discovered,
Narked on by the garden gnome.

His shelter was demolished,
And the owner called out “Shoo!”
Chased him all across the garden,
Shouting “Nobody wants you!”

It took rat all that evening,
To track down his new master….
(If he’d only had his fourth foot,
He could have travelled faster!)

When Nobody espied him,
It filled his heart with joy,
Was ratty an escaped pet?
—Was it girl or was it boy?

In minutes they had bonded,
And poor rat had gained a name,
“I’m going to call you Yardy –
Because ‘three feet’ means the same.” 😉

— and it was a conversation about Sarah and her Mum, Wendy, making a comfy nest out of a box lined with soft material for an injured Possum who has lost half his tail that led me to the parallel of how the kindness of humans towards the animal kingdom makes a difference right across the globe — 😉 xx

Sunset at The Forum…

Until very recently (yesterday, in fact!) the little village in which I live had a vibrant online Forum…

The new laws in data protection, though, meant it would be difficult for the facility to continue…. so the curtain was drawn… the stage upon which we skipped around discussing the serious and the not-so-serious since the beginnings of the development of this village at the turn of the Millenium was, following a gentle finale, cast into oblivion ….

Such a shame …. but, on reflection, in the ten years since its inception, firm friendships developed and the community spirit here was built…

Woven into each of the hundreds of topics were little stories that I often couldn’t resist putting into verse… some of them I have managed to save and may find their way to these pages..

One, in particular came to mind today when I was chatting with my online Scrabble partner, Sarah, who lives in Brisbane … I shall reproduce it on here in a minute but first, I’d like to reiterate a tribute to the Forum’s Administrator which, with the sun having set on his creation, has now been lost to the mists of time…

One day in two-thousand-and-seven,
A villager had an idea…
“Why don’t I just set up a Forum,
To help build up the neighbourhood here…?”

He’d no inkling when setting its format,
Of the journey through time it would take,
How the posts cov’ring allsorts of subjects,
Soon a treasured mosaic would make…

Some discussions of serious nature,
Brought forth many, and varied, a view,
As did light-hearted (rib-shaking!) comments,
Oft’ provided by……well……you-know-who…!! *

Through this website we’ve shared tears and laughter,
Been united in cares and concerns,
Learnt a lot from each other; made friendships,
…now from daybreak to dusk the hour turns…

As the sun sets, we’re left with reflections,
Of kaleidoscoped colour-rich gems,
Archived somewhere in space for forever,
‘Social Media’s Creme de la Creme’…

…so, eleven years on, we’ll say “Thank you”,
(Such small words can’t convey all we feel)
To the person whose virtual creation,
Breathed life into this village for real… 😉 xx

(*… the 800 or so members of the Forum know who… and are all now left wondering whether he-who-so-deserved-to-have-the-last-word actually did …. 😉



2015-05-25 Dartmoor 026

The Route Card headed ‘Dartmoor’,

Showed the group the way to go,

But, with mixed ages to consider,

Estimated speed was ‘slow!’

From Postbridge to Grey Whethers,

Hiking up the Hartland Tor,

The youngest of the trekkers,

Declared “I can’t walk one step more—–!”

“I really need to eat now,

For I’m hungry — starving — weak —;

How much further ’til it’s lunchtime?

Do we have to reach that peak—?”

The Settlements we showed her,

And Hut Circles which we passed,

(And some bribing and cajoling!)

Seemed to help her with her fast —

We admired the Dartmoor ponies,

Acknowledged gazing Moorland cows,

Stooped to view the heath’s sweet flora,

Paused to sit awhile and browse—-

In our sights we kept our leader,

Equipped with all survival gear,

First-Aid Kit and Flares and Compass,

If fog set in, we’d nought to fear—-

Sittaford, our picnic venue,

Was reached by quite an uphill climb;

Majestic views stretched out around us,

Little changes over time—-

Refreshed and rested on the hill-top,

We made our way down from this ridge,

To trail the fastly-flowing river,

Until we came to Clapper Bridge.

1,245 feet ‘bove sea level,

Stands an Inn just east of here,

So to The Warren House we headed,

For good cooked food (and half-a-beer!)

Then, homeward-bound, healthily weary,

Our day with Nature now complete,

We’d thoughts of “This is not ‘Goodbye’, though;

It’s just ‘— until we next shall meet’—”  😉 xx

2015-05-25 Dartmoor 069

When the Scribe blames the Quill…

victorian lady

You know when you buy a new outfit?
Try it on—but you’re not really sure—;
You keep looking at it in the mirror,
Thinking, “—hem-line’s too far from the floor–!”
Sometimes it’s like that when we’re writing,
“Oh, my wording’s not flowing quite right.”
So you store it far back in the wardrobe,
And you look at it, each day and night.
“Does my bum look too big?” you ask others;
“Is the neckline too low?” with concern;
“And the colour? I’m still not too certain…”
When, oh, when, will we that lesson learn—?
It really does not make a difference,
If our outward appearance will fit,
With the fashion around at that moment,
Who we are will mean more than our kit!
So then, why is it that on this blog page,
I delete just as much as stays put,
Do I really expect to look perfect,
From the top of my head to my foot?
From the title (which acts as a bonnet)
Through the chemise, with which I begin,
To the volumous skirts, leather footwear,
(Even this image could make you grin—!)
I try to put over my theories,
On which words have already been wrote;
“Just believe in yourself,” I’m reminded–
—but it’s my signature on that quote—-! xx


….where troubles melt like Lemon Drops…..


A once-in-a-lifetime experience,

I know it won’t happen again—

Eight-a.m. on a fine April morning,

Flying high…..with a glass of Champagne!


The trip was a gift from our children,

Our launch-pad, the park at French Weir,

Destination was up to the the wind-flow,

—that decided which way we would veer.


High up above Taunton we glided,

In awe of spectacular views,

The town, railway, rivers and roadways,

Laid out in a patchwork of hues.


From this basket, I spy there’s no litter,

There’s no eyesore upon our fine town,

No fly-tipped, abandoned, dumped rubbish,

Will it still look the same when we’re down?


Though some parts have a poor reputation,

From up here it’s a scene of delight,

With estates and streets clearly distinguished,

Architects’ drawing boards got it right!


We drifted north-eastwards, past Blackbrook,

Over Henlade and pastures of green;

The canal, a blue ribbon below us,

Matchbox cars on the M5 were seen.


In North Curry, we braced, bounced and landed,

Helped our transport’s sac into its bag:

How can I describe now the feeling—

—to so fly and yet know no jet lag?


—there’ve been times in my life I’ll remember,

Which would tick “Things to do ‘fore I die…”

This came close to a magical carpet,

With its freewheelin’ ride through the sky—– xx







October Leaves–

autumn leaves

—sometimes, as we grow older, memories become ever-more important —

—something to lift us if we feel down, a reminder of those special times which we are thankful to have had—-

I wrote this poem ages ago (late October 2011) but recalling some particular memories today brought it back to my mind so I’ll share it on here (—if you’re a reader of the Cotford Forum, please bear with me as I’ve posted it on there before—-!)

‘October Leaves’

Did you ever try clutching,
A moment of time?
I did — and it prompted,
This reason for rhyme.
I stood and I waited,
As Autumn leaves fell,
I needed to catch one,
A story to tell.
It seems, a tradition,
In my family,
Is to, every October,
Wait under a tree.
Then, as the leaves tumble,
And before they can land,
The mission’s accomplished,
If one drifts to your hand.
Hallowe’en was my last chance,
This challenge to meet,
I stood, palm outstretched,
But they fell at my feet.
The Cherry tree’s owner,
Tried shaking the bough,
But its produce escaped me,
I could not fathom how—-
It’s like that with moments,
We would capture and treasure,
We cannot hold on,
Though they’re parts of life’s measure.
We just have to store them,
According to rank,
In that place built within us,
—our Memory Bank.
There, unlike those leaves,
There’s no rot or decay,
But a magical album,
Bringing back yesterday——- xx