Moving at last

I know I have been slightly conspicuous by my absence from cyber-space for a while, but I have been busy.

Daughter No.1 is to be married on 28th September, and we are moving house in early October. We are relocating to Dorset which was our intention about five years ago. If the telephone and broadband transfer goes smoothly, we shall be back on line on the 9th.

If nothing else we have made headway with clearing out heaps of rubbish and general unwanted clutter which we found in the attic, shed and cupboards. This has all been given away, recycled or consigned to landfill, and it’s taken an age.


On a bladderwracked, forsaken isle,
all swirled about with wind-blown gulls,
a wild man keeps his hut and hearth,
eschewing what he held most dear;
awash in toxic madness.

A giant monster, gnarled and raving,
marked by sun and raging winds,
bewitched beneath a pregnant moon,
and twisted like a mandrake root;
harbouring ancient sins.

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Our handsome lady proudly struts and pats her curls in place;
Clad in frills and furbelowed, a smile upon her face.
Her small, soft hands are clad in kid, her shoes are made of silk,
Her eyes a sparkling cornflower blue, her skin as pale as milk.

She sheds her tippet, grasps her fan, and holds her head up high.
Her heart beats fast, her cheeks flush pink; a well-bred butterfly.
The staircase loomed and down below the “ton” all gazed enrapt.
The music faltered, dancers stood, the whole assembly clapped.

Our debutante, quite nervous now, commences her descent.
She trips and falls headlong, I fear, and nothing can prevent
A precipitous arrival, on the ballroom floor below -
She landed at the Prince’s feet, pantaloons on show!

Entry to poetry competition.

A villa on the edge


A villa on the edge

My daughter swimming laps.
I lose count after 200,
she’s not best pleased.
For my penance I take her down the cliff
to the rocky beach.
She snorkels in the pools.
I dread the journey back;
she beats me by a mile.

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Risk Assessment

Children are tougher than butterflies!

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A Modest Proposal

A Modest Proposal, with profuse apologies to Jonathan Swift

“A modest proposal for preventing the children of poor people in Ireland from being a burden to their parents or country, and for making them beneficial to the public”

The Irish problem could be solved, there’s quite a simple cure,
By dining on the offspring of the nation’s poor.
Oven-ready babies could be sold when weaned,
They’d fetch a fortune so I‘m told; ten shillings maybe more.

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Wiki: Artist, Ian Hornak

Foaled in blood, and blessed with wings,
where’er he lights sweet water springs.
Thus, every ringing strike of hooves
his true Divinity he proves.

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