A clear, turquoise sea,
You can see clear to the bottom,
And the turtles happily swimming amongst us…
What a world it is to live in!

b

If I put my hands across my eyes,
Can you see me?
‘Cause I can’t see you!
Sit and count slowly,
1 – 100,
Enough time for me to find…
A convenient tree…
Hide my face and the world disappears,
…do I too?

Watch out world, I’m on my trike!
This is a freedom I really like!
I can pedal with vigour and then freewheel,
Drive at pedestrians, make them squeal!
I can go really fast, or ever so slow,
It’s a fabulous feeling, don’t you know?
I won’t wear a shirt, I want the air on my skin,
But my mum thinks that I’ll bruise my back or my shin,
So I will appease her and wear a flat cap,
In case, heaven forfend, I have a mishap!

If you want to know true majesty,
Seek out these giants of the sea.
I am tall at six foot four,
But he swamps me, four score or more.
Unassuming, gentle giants,
These creatures are a gift to science.
I could watch for hours and hours,
My affection for them never sours.
They move with ease and awesome grace,
The water seems to hold them in a close embrace.
And marvel how something of such size,
Can somehow just materialise.

I was cooking a wonderful buffet,
For all of my very best friends,
Meat, fish, veggie, all gourmet,
And following all of the latest trends.
I was deeply and totally absorbed in my work,
But I felt I was being scrutinised,
I was alone, so felt like a bit of a jerk,
Then looked up and to my utter surprise,
I had an audience of hens, dog and cat,
All keen to sample my wares,
I silently promised each of them that
The leftovers might answer their prayers!

A gash of colour beneath my feet,
As if the trees themselves are shedding their life’s blood,
A world of red,
Above, below,
As far as the eye can see.
The lush, vibrant, greens of summer,
Are morphing into the hues of Fall.
But this is no humble, gentle transformation,
This is Autumn declaring itself.
“Look at ME!”
Marvel at just how beautiful
This little death can be each year…

This poem is for my darling wife, on a
day to remember her grandmother. To remind her that the wonder of the times we have with those we love is locked in our hearts and minds forever and it may be painful to remember on days like this but it is a good pain because the joy and the love floods back too…

The clouds had banked,
In giant powder puffs,
The last rays of sunlight
Painted the clouds pink,
And purple and blue,
And the moon, now full,
Rested on the clouds.

Like a streamlined cannonball, the owl was in its flight,
Streaking for its quarry in the twilit hours of night.
Eyes fixed firmly on its prey,
Incase the blighter got away.
Wings pinned closely to its sides,
To maximise its silent glide.
Marvelling at its beauty and élan,
I did not wait to see if it got its man!

I was sitting on a memorial bench, in Trafalgar Square,
When a solitary pigeon materialised from, apparently, thin air.

I liked his air of certainty, he had a sense of purpose,
As though, compared to his intent, all else was somehow surplus.

He had a kind of arrogance that his surroundings couldn’t shatter,
As if, beside his aim in life, all else just didn’t matter.

The truth is I had a sandwich of quite enormous size,
And he had not just clocked it, his eyes were firmly on his prize.

I’d bought myself a small baguette, tomato, basil, mozzarella,
And it was clearly manna to this discerning little fella.

So I tore an end off pronto, that was sadly lacking filling,
And fed it to my buccaneer – who clearly made a killing.

So if you visit London, and go to this notorious square,
And sit on a memorial bench, you might just find him there.

Scrutinise this photograph, and memorise him well,
And then, please would you give him some trifling bagatelle?

And as you scatter round you a field of lush breadcrumb debris,
Would you murmur to him that it’s “virtually” from me?!

Lightning
The sea was calm,
No roiling water,
No mountainous waves,
No sign of tides surging,
The harbingers of storm were still.
But the air was dense,
The clouds full,
A wall of expectancy.
And then, from nowhere,
A clap of thunder,
Followed, in quick succession,
By a dagger of light,
With trailing tendrils,
As the sky split.