PRECIOUS MOMENTS

The morning light comes shining through,
And with it are my thoughts of you.
Precious moments, count each one,
For very soon they will be gone.

THE SOUNDS OF MORNING

The rustle of paper, the crunching of toast,
These are the morning sounds of which I hate most.
I wake up sleepy not feeling my best,
These are the sounds that my patience do test.

Not wanting to talk I hide away,
But the person that's with me is awake and gay.
To try and halt the noise I dread,
I think I'll just go back to bed.

THE PREFAB

The prefab houses stark and grey,
In my childhood memories they do stay.
My earliest days when I was young,
To vivid pictures of them I've clung.

The corrugated profiled roof,
Was always there throughout my youth.
The iron windows, the twisted one,
Thick with ice of winters gone.

Lupins and marigolds in the garden we grew,
Of cabbage and turnips we had quite a few.
The man right across a hen hut he had,
He’d keep us in eggs, some good and some bad.

The little kitchen warm and cosy,
The blackleaded range your cheeks would make rosy.
The big white sink so deep and wide,
She kept it clean, my mothers pride.

The living room so cold and bare,
Just one small fire threw out its glare.
The oak sideboard with plates and mugs,
The bare black floor with old peg rugs.

The inside toilet (weren't we posh),
When people saw it they said “gosh”!
A bathroom too is what we had,
A weekly bath was not too bad.

A bedroom to myself I had,
When growing up this made me glad.
A bed and a toy box were all that were there,
No pictures on wall and floor so bare.

And then one day my mum did say,
In the prefab we’d no longer stay.
Around the corner we would go,
To 49 at the end of the row.

HEAD IN THE WINDOW

There’s a head in the window in the house cross the street,
Though it’s been there for ages we’ve still yet to meet.
It’s there in the morning and it’s there in the night,
It’s there in the dark and it’s there in the light.

He’s working from home his living to make,
He’s at his computer with never a break.
With Bluetooth a’blinking and mobile so hot,
He’s working so hard to make cash for the pot.

He strides up and down with his hands all a flap,
His mouth keeps on going I feel I should clap.
I wish I could hear the words that he says,
For those are the ones that his wages it pays.

And then one day the head is not there,
I’d knock on his door if only I dare.
I fear for his safety and hope he’s not ill,
Till a neighbour tells me he’s gone off to Rhyll.

MY DARLING

I feel her gaze upon my face, her warm touch upon my skin,

My body yearns so much for her, her love I long to win.

I’ll lie with her these many hours, until the day is done,

And through the night I’ll dream of her, my darling, lovely, Sun.

And when the morrow breaks, and once more she calls to me,

We’ll be together once again, for all the world to see.

THE GRIM REAPER (on holiday)

“Peace and tranquillity” the guest book it read,
The thoughts of a quiet week went round in my head.
A super old cottage all covered in moss,
The churchyard adjacent, the cemetery across.

Saturday was fine; there wasn’t much noise,
Just the sound of kids playing, some girls; and some boys.
The hum of the traffic, the trill of the birds,
Just now and then the speaking of words.

Then Sunday arrived all quiet at first,
Till all of a sudden on the scene he did burst.
The Grim Reaper stood there with strimmer and hoe,
The graves to keep tidy; the grass he'd to mow.

For hour on hour the strimmer it screamed,
Of peace and tranquillity was all that I dreamed,
My head it was spinning, my nerves were all shot,
I was calling him names; and I know quite a lot.

I picked up the pen and looked at the page,
My hands were a trembling; I was in a rage.
Here's what I wrote (and I don't feel guilty),
"I'm going back home to peace and tranquillity".

BREAKFAST IN THE GARDEN (on holiday)

Early rays of sunshine filter through the trees,
The Robin on the chair-arm with my presence he’s at ease.
Those damn accursed pigeons coo-cooing in the Yew,
The course of fox’s footprints is marked-out in the dew.

The Blackbird stands and stares, his ground he will not give,
Those worms that are in front of me he needs them for to live.
The church bells now are silent the graveyard is all mine,
There are no folk around just now for Mass is not till nine.

You hear a rustling in the tree and catch a sight of it,
That bushy-tailed squirrel from bough to bough it flits.
Early morning traffic comes rushing down the lane,
It breaks the silence with its noise; it is my hate, my bane.