Here are the poems received during July…
For the 12th August 2017
The Village Fayre! The Village Fayre!
We know, you know – we’ll all be there.
Just make it be sunny,
For love not money.
All sorts of fun round the cricket square.
– Some Fayre-related promo-bod
Beyond my bedroom window
Beyond my bedroom window, I see the garden gate,
Where my friend stops to talk to me, her name is Sarah -Kate.
Beyond the garden gate, I see the busy road,
And many lorries rushing by with their heavy load,
Beyond the busy road, I see the little town,
With lots and lots of people, walking up and down.
Beyond the busy town, I see the distant hills,
And sitting on the top of them, are seven small windmills.
Beyond the distant hills, I see the deep blue sea,
Where fish and dolphins swim about as happy as can be.
– Sue Laye
The G –
Never take it as gospel
that you’ve ever read well.
Our ilk possess libraries
with not every word read.
Ready your kin for the
tumult, that feeble task.
Look not to the future
for penance over the past.
The bully for you
Let me walk away
from envy – take
paths dictated by
Abide my aggressor’s
Borrow, never simply
Wake wild in waters
Seek solace in the
The Summer of ‘17
Is it a Dragon or is it a Damsel?
Wings folded at rest or held out?
If it’s the latter, it’s as clear as a bell,
‘Tis a Dragonfly, no doubt!
Is it a Darter, or does it go Hawking?
We can see when it’s hunting prey.
Hawkers patrol and appear to be stalking
The others will perch all day!
Quick flash of colour, glamorous Damsel,
Blue-Tail or lovely Azure,
Bright head and tail, body invisible,
The former, that’s for sure.
Gorgeous Demoiselle, Beauty or Banded?
They’re easy to tell apart.
Wait a while, ’til it has landed,
Wing markings will give you a start.
Ephemeral flutterings among the Thorn,
A truly splendid sight.
Woodland glade and Bramble born,
Admirals Red and White.
Gatekeeper or Meadow Brown,
It’s usually a matter of spots.
Both have orange in their gown,
But ‘Keepers have two white dots!
Caterpillars rampant, spikes, and glitter,
Ignoring nettle sting.
Where are the eyes that one day will flitter,
When the Peacock’s on the wing.
Crawling in Ragwort, furiously feeding,
Banded in black and gold.
The adult to be, copiously bleeding,
A Cinnabar, scarlet and bold!
(Click here for the Tales from Quarry Wood Dragonfly/Butterfly pics)
Flutter by beauty
Brief ethereal glimpses
Wings of Picasso.
Cinnabar Moth Caterpillar haiku
Yellow and black stripes
Frenetic Ragwort munching
Red and black emerge.
– C. King
Flaming June 2017
A sixth month heatwave
A wash of warm
Bask in the sunshine
A delicious four weeks
Of sun-kissed skin,
Barbecues and loungers,
No eating in.
The lawn gently yellowed
The grass stopped growing
Glass half full…
It didn’t need mowing,
July brought a change,
The rain, it fell.
Seize your sunshine, we say,
At least the flowers do well.
– M. Fish
And in honour of the upcoming Fayre, here’s a couple from the Crowbard archive …
Summer Fayre (1987)
When I was there at the Summer Fayre,
I heard Dad swear ‘cos he hit a coconut right square
but it didn’t budge.
With Mummy I went round a big white tent
in a yummy floral scent and cakes the people had lent
to be tried and judged.
The majorettes were nice, I had donkey rides twice,
then I ate some sugar mice while Dad tried the lucky dice,
Mum giving a nudge.
She bought some funny old bric-a-brac, but Dad soon got his money back
by winning a prize from a mystery sack, so then we had jam sponge and a stack
of super chocolate fudge!
But the best best thing for me on that day
was hearing the lovely music play
as the a fairground organ blazed away
with drums and lights and colours gay.
Can we go again next year? Hooray!
Were you thayre? (1993)
Were you thayre
at the Summer Fayre
when shouts and laughter filled the ayre?
Where kiddies bounced like jumping beans
on super monster trampolines,
and Chas was heard in Pearcing tones
shaking us oldies to the bones
while we sat and supped our cup of tea
and munched good cake real happily.
We met old friends at the Flower Show
and marvelled at the stuff they grow:
glads and dahlias, pansies and roses,
carrots as long as giants’ noses,
and perfect onions, huge by heck!
Plus runners that Charlie MUST have s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d.
We fell for raffles, had a go
at roll-a-ball or pitch-and-throw,
we clocked the ponies with the kids
and spent our pennies, then our quids
on books and toys for charity funds,
plus beer and coke and sticky buns.
And all this time I looked and thought
that miracles are somehow wrought
down at the Rec by clever sorts
who’d planned and budgeted and fought
to give us just the Fayre we sought:
a really happy Village day
whether the skies were bright or mildly grey.
Well, sure enough the SUN arrived,
yes, just in time, perhaps connived
or prayed for in the church and chapel.
It made our cheeks as red as apples,
and sent us home with smiling faces,
thinking ‘old Crowhurst beats most places!’
A year to wait now, more’s the pity.
Come on, get cracking, ’94 Committee!
|August 2017 poems||June 2017 poems