The Mouse And The Lion

The fieldmouse is not timorous,
Enduring daily what he must do;
It’s language being carnivorous;
Men did the same with mole and shrew.

What else is now existing
Which their words would misconstrue;
And when those keepers are not needed,
What then will we do?

At Clumber Park

Your young heart yearned to return to the lake
Where the River Poulter’s breeching;
You read through a billet, decisions to make,
His words bubbled up beseeching.

With a parasol perambulate,
Ornamental bridge with a padlock;
Day visitors now will emulate
From Nottingham to Matlock.

You’ll pass in dreams the sluice and weir,
Pipes burp water to workers;
Horse chestnuts dress your path each year,
Your lover left for mazurkas.

They stripped the Hall of timber and bricks,
Snow for sheets where you slumber;
They stowed pianos and candlewicks
In crates with a stamp and a number.

I found the marsh where you would pause
For yaffle-sounds and bramble;
Still the swans preserve the laws,
And the lambs in the fields still gambol.


I’ll know a feeling fairly blessed
When Titmus Tom is in the nest,
The shelter’s straw and mossy floor
Hanging from the potting shed.
Blue heads make for Blue Tits, see,
If black and white the Great Tits be,
That is the way and this is the key.
Coal Tits rest in conifers,
Crested Tits you’ll self-refer,
I did not meet with Jennifer.
Willow Tits are on the turn,
Their black bibs from the ings
Which burnt, back when vassals suffered.
Marsh Tits make for memories good
When baked within the season’s pud.
Their genera are the following three:
Parus from Latin for titular breeds,
For birds in blue say Cyanistes,
Poecile stems from Ancient Greek;
Within a willow I found four, then three.
Vibrant migrants flown for now,
A pigeon with an ankle sprained
Is all the lonely lawn contains,
And on the floor, a dressing gown.

Blue Box

Taxes paid for astronauts
To fly a flag on the moon;
Teraelectrons tunnelled loops,
Trinity made a Mexican soup,
But I cannae recycle plastic bags.

Into my head I had hard-wired
Dead musicians tarnished;
HIV’s retreating,
And the wars these days are fleeting,
But I cannae recycle varnish.

The Minister for Handwash
Is now self-incubating;
Satellites trajectory
Connect me to Detroit,
But I cannae recycle kitchen foil.

Transport ticks on biofuels,
Why only now is this unlocked?
MRI minds diseases,
Embryo preservationists,
But I cannae recycle a pizza box.

When the wheels regenerate
My fishy gills trap plastic;
It’s no suprise I have issues.
Perhaps I’ll feel a form of fantastic
When we are recycling tissues.


This short lifelong, stayed terrified,
I skimmed my teeth and lost my mind;
The terror created by those outside,
But now I know there’s peace to find.

Leaders atop should pour kind profit,
And better times for people,
Yet my dictators dressed as prophets
And had the strong made feeble.

Those demons dressed as every-day folk,
Surveyed from a yellow soffit;
It’s the innocent who suffer most
On the road from Vectis to Moffat.

Through cataracts of oil they broke,
Dissolving bells in the spire;
Meadows choked, a flame awoke,
And set the forests on fire.

I looked at women in cages kept
By men who beat them for wages;
My eloquence lost to the internet,
Overdosed, I slept through the ages.

Protestors drove to the city,
Berating grey expansions,
When its placards versus tyranny
Suppressors sing in their mansions.

Next they stole my language,
Words once sweet as clover;
My father murdered at Sandwich,
Through Hastings dragged, and Dover.

My kidnapped son, he’d be handsome,
But I’ve not seen him for years;
Monthy I still pay the ransom,
And forget the feeling of tears.

The demons would turn those souls with tongs
Into rolls of garlicked black-pudding,
But should still a seed dispenser bring bird-songs,
I will burst out from my hooding.