The storm clouds gathered, the skies grew dark,

Noah cut down trees and planed the bark,

And set about building his wooden ark.

He’d a blueprint to follow, knew where to begin,

He’d his sons to help him and a goat called Gunga Din,

Who butted in nails like they were thumbtacks of tin.

He built up that boat, plank upon plank,

He made a rudder, a giant gangplank,

And a roof for shelter, but the sides were blank.

Noah knew his instructions came straight from heaven,

That this mighty task was indeed a true leaven,

So the  clean birds and beasts were boarded, by seven.

Unclean beasts boarded two by two,

Rat, bear and lobster, vulture too,

But the pheasant was clean, as was the caribou.

Having felt it was a task that he could complete,

Johan Huibers replicated this feat,

And built a life-size ark, with animals replete.

 

What is it about a nice fresh fig,

That produces a taste that is sweet and BIG,

But eat too many and your digestion,

May be severely called into question!

Give me a raspberry that is ripe and red,

And preferably, definitely Scottish-bred,

And I will be a happy bunny,

Because this fruit is lush and sunny.

The PYO* will yield a  precious load,

Guaranteed to make your tastebuds explode.

I’ll pop them on a nice Pavlova,

I’ve got some good friends coming over!

 

* Pick Your Own

Crystal or brass,

Each has a different tone,

Humming to their own unique note.

The pure higher chime that comes with glass,

Played sometimes in unison, sometimes alone,

I almost know each sound by rote.

The deeper pitch of the Tibetan bowl,

Ringing its music to seduce and charm,

A Singing Bowl makes me feel peaceful, whole,

Above all it brings me calm.

I’m trying to eat this with poise and style,

But that is like wishing on a star,

It’s messy and awkward, and makes me smile,

But if I want to be graceful, I won’t go far.

Pasta’s immensely versatile,

But the sauce is likely to drip on my chin,

From a string of linguine that’s rather hostile

So let the search for my napkin begin!

Spalded beech.

I love the look of it,

The feel of it,

The smell of it.

Marbled veins run through it.

Smooth to touch,

Living, almost breathing.

The smell is intoxicating,

The feel is divine.

Wood…

“Oh Lord, it’s late and we’re sitting around,
Just waiting for someone who’s homeward-bound…”
The life of an “‘ospital transporter” is varied but hard,
‘Cause they never know who they’ll have to pick up in their ‘car’….
And believe me, these amb’lances are not comfy or gentle,
They’re a white van stripped back to the bare essential.
The trolley’s so small, your feet hang off the end,
As you take every corner, your spirits descend,
‘Cause it’s simply not got any kind of suspension,
So each bump in the road’s felt in places I’d much rather not mention!
If you travel in one, pray you haven’t had a back op,
Or you’ll scream blue murder till the vehicle comes to a stop!
Travelling in these monstrosities really isn’t a joke,
The upside is the staff who drive them are wonderful folk!