HOUSE TO HOUSE

Mr Schneider spied a spider
Slinking past his kitchen door;
So much feared by Mrs Schneider,
Spider couldn’t stay there any more.

Mr Schneider caught the spider,
Dumped the creature near his shed,
And now the spider’s world was wider,
Stretched beyond the neighbour’s flower bed.

In the next-door busy lodging,
Many creatures liked to hide;
Through an open window dodging,
Swift and silent, spider slipped inside.

Children played and ate and idled,
Would they spot the spider run?
When beside a foot it sidled,
This was not enjoyed by everyone.

Out again! (A rough propelling),
Spider reached another stop,
Soon invading Mrs Snelling;
A quiet cottage, by the baker’s shop.

Neat and tidy, almost pokey;
Mrs Snelling loved her house.
Her cat Horatio, sleek and smoky,
Hoovered every spider, moth or mouse.

But spider came when cat was sleeping,
Tripping past the feline’s snout,
On it slipped in silent creeping,
Hoping there was no one else about.

Mrs Snelling didn’t know that
Even in her ordered home,
Some things make the most of no-cat,
Enjoying all that tidy space to roam.

Who has not one murky feature
Duster-proof and out of reach,
Which a weightless, breathless creature
Might inhabit, noiseless as a leech?

It found a nook, the spider stranger,
Safe from cleaning and the claws,
But soon got bored with peaceful danger,
Thought it might prefer the great outdoors.

From another pampered garden,
Into Tom the Artist’s place,
And next the home of Dave the Drummer;
Not the world’s most peaceful spider space.

Indoors, outdoors, shed and greenhouse,
Cupboards, crannies, wardrobe backs,
From well-explored to hardly-seen house,
From curtains made of silk to dusty sacks.

Spider spied the toddler tantrums,
Spider heard the teenage shouts,
The violins and old rock anthems,
Smelt superb cuisine and boiled sprouts.

Bi-fold doors and garden features,
Grubby, spotless, loud, serene.
Next time you’re expelling creatures,
Think of all the things they’ve heard and seen!

 

SWIFTS

When the swifts soar off to Africa,
Swoop by swoop, wingbeat by wingbeat,
There is an emptiness in the sky.

Fanned pigeons will come,
Clamoring and clumsy,
All fuss and bother,
Without elegance.

Grubby clouds roll in,
And leaves begin to desiccate;
Velvet grass has turned to sacking,
As last year repeats itself.

Swifts are either joyously free, or condemned,
Spending their lives in flight,
A never-ending journey
Following summer.

But we endure the gathering storm
Of annual regrets
That summer was too chilly, too unappreciated,
Too short.

Farewell, you soul-like flyers,
You kings of sky,
Turning on a great breath.

Our hearts go with you,
And how we hope to see you yet,
To feel another summer.

NINE LIVES

We call her Ghost, for she appears
And vanishes like phantom fur;
She is not ours, but through the years
We’ve made a sort of pact with her,
And mostly we are friends.

When she appears she wants a fuss,
And knows we’ll find the time to spare;
It’s all that she requires of us,
Our full attention while she’s there,
For all the time she spends.

A sudden nudge may startle you,
An overture to ankle rubs;
Or there may be a plaintive mew
Before you glimpse fur in the shrubs,
When company she seeks.

At times she strides across the lawn
As if surveying conquered lands,
As if she’s to our garden born;
But Ghost rules other minds and hands,
And slips away for weeks.

She’s sometimes shabby, sometimes chic,
A coward caught by sharp surprise,
She’s serpentine, she’s fluffy sleek,
Unearthly when her hackles rise,
She’s velvet, misty grey.

She’s in and out, so free to roam,
But when she’s here, like ours she seems;
Until she takes another home,
Inhabits other people’s dreams.
She comes, she goes away.

Ghost haunts our birds, she bats the bees,
Pursues our blameless butterflies;
Acts like she loves us, then she leaves.
Her rubs and purrs are all but lies,
Her eyes with mischief shine.

Who else does Ghost adore and shun,
Who lends her strokes and legs and laps?
And does she care for anyone?
She lives eight other lives perhaps,
And we are number nine.

 

HEDGEHOG

Our hedgehog (never really ours)
Now sleeps for ever with the flowers.
Living as the tongues of grass
And eyes of petals: all to pass,
And all to live in other ways,
For nights after nights,
For days after days.
And other hedgehog snouts will peep
From where our hedgehog went to sleep.

 

WITHERY WOOD

In Withery Wood the branches dipped low,
The ivy sprang high under foot;
Slithery, slithery, mind how you go,
It was easy to trip on a root.

The wood had its legends, some evil and gory:
The latest involved a beast cat.
Dithery, dithery, merely a story,
Or just a large fox, come to that?

Some swore, in the village, their sheep had been got –
The boys thought they’d set out to see.
Higgeldy piggeldy, ready or not,
They jostled along after tea.

Brave as young lions they strode in the sun,
They lept the gate to the wood,
Thrillingly, thrillingly, the tracking was fun
And the feeling it gave them was good.

But the clouds were soon foaming and dark as the trees,
The sun was fast falling to ground,
Whispery, whispery, leaves purred with breeze
While the darkness came prowling around.

Five – there were five – with the shadows they slipped,
With the ivy they crossed the copse floor;
Dizzily, dizzily, one of them tripped,
And suddenly five boys were four.

He was lagging behind when he fell on his head,
Whilst the others went rummaging on;
Trickley. trickely, the slowest boy bled.
When the others looked back he was gone.

It was only a rustle they heard in their fear,
A rush and a slither behind.
Quivery, quivery they scurried like deer,
Stumbling, for the dark turned them blind.

Out from the woodland in panic they tore,
Half bursting their lungs to get help.
Distantly, distantly, there perhaps was a roar –
A roar, or a snarl, or a yelp.

They raised an alarm and the searchers were sent,
Through the bracken and branches and night;
Ploddingly, ploddingly, with purpose they went.
A boy was discovered by torchlight.

The fifth boy was tended, was taken, was treated,
And was asked what he knew of his fall,
But flickery, flickery, his mind was defeated
And he couldn’t remember atall.

They patched up his head and in time he was fine.
His friends’ nervous tales were ignored,
But shivery, shivery, found near his spine
Were some scratches that could have been clawed.

In Withery Wood the tree bark is blistery,
The vines ripple down like a curtain;
Slithery, slithery, there’s always a mystery,
For no one can ever be certain.

 

SQUIRRELS

Three slinky squirrels
And their caterpillar tails;
Warm velvety gymnasts
In our stiff winter tree.

One glance away
And they have instantly propelled themselves
To a more distant playground,
Squirming and wriggling, tumbling and dangling
With boundless energy,
Scattering little birds on their way.

They act like pre-teens;
Noisy, hyperactive, joyful;
As full of life as you could imagine.

The three slinky squirrels
Have disappeared with the suddeness
That they arrived.

The garden is very still and sleeps.

 

FISH IN THE DARK

The lights went out in the fish tank,
The fish must have thought it was night –
Or a total eclipse,
They were smacking their lips,
Which was hopefully not out of fright.

The lights went out in the fish tank,
So we purchased some new lighting kit,
But perhaps something fused,
For the fish looked confused
When their little world stayed quite unlit.

The lights went out in the fish tank,
The fish must have floundered in doubt,
Or they wondered, perhaps,
If they’d had a time lapse
And returned to a World War 2 blackout.

The lights went out in the fish tank,
And the fish went quite quiet and still.
Did they think it The End?
Do they wish they could mend
Their own fish world problems at will?

The lights went out in the fish tank.
And improvements will one day ensue;
But until things are mended
Fishy fun is suspended,
And what can the poor fishes do?

 

LION

The following poem is not one of mine, but was written by one of my children at primary school.

Sleeps like an animal in hibernation.
Wakes…roars with hunger
Creeps like a spider
Hides…silent as a mouse
Crouches. Pounces.
His leap is lethal
Sheds flesh in seconds
Keeps his prey out of the way.
Sleeps like an animal in hibernation.

 

LLAMA PYJAMA

A llama in pyjamas
Was in my bed,
“Whatever are you doing in there?” I said;
The llama in pyjamas
Said to me,
“Well, I saw the bed was empty
So I though that it was free.”

 

ADDRESS TO SNAILS

Listen to this

Voracious hunters of my peas and beans
Who munch my marigolds and gorge my greens,
Who lurk in dens by every pot and fence,
Who foil attack and ravage my defence,
I nurture seedlings hoping they will thrive,
But when I turn away your mouths arrive.
You’ll decimate my plants in some short hours;
My shoots, my leaves, my pods, my stalks, my flowers!
Crushed egg shells, grit and sand are all ill-fated,
Along with bottle collars I’ve serrated;
Coffee grounds are likewise no protection
Against your constant, greedy insurrection.
Now, if I choose to propagate mange touts
I do not want them eaten all by you!
I’ve learnt that herbs can live another day,
Along with tulips, curry plants and bay;
But what’s the fate of Hosta and sweet pea?
The answer’s clear for anyone to see.

Come thrushes, hedgehogs, anything that eats you.
One day. Sometime. Somehow.
I will beat you.