George Davey Book of poems part 2 of 2

Patsy Drew Some years ago (the tale is told) Among the Islanders of old, There lived in Portland, Patsy Drew, Who all the Tophill people knew.

His speech imperfect, oft caused mirth Due to his palate, cleft at birth And doubtful passages arose As words were uttered through his nose.

Now Patsy, full of British grit, Was quite prepared to do his bit, As “Haig” did point there from the wall “For you to heed the battle call”.

Off with his pals our Patsy went To stand with them was his intent Such stalwart men were hard to find, These Islanders of single mind.

Enlisting for the Nation’s need, Of efforts brave, heroic deeds.

Upon the line Pat signed his name, Confirming he desired the same.

Before the medics icy stare They now must strip their bodies bare To touch their toes and cough quite hard (The findings written on a card).

The Doc he made the final test, With Patsy joining with the rest And prayed that with his pals he’d chance, The dangerous action out in France.

Throughout ensuing prolonged wait, He pondered on his pending fate, Wondering if the Panel found

He was of mind and body sound.

At last the waited verdict came As Patsy listened for his name.

“In spite of your unquestioned zeal You are not fit enough, we feel”.

“But why?” cried Patsy in dismay, “How can you treat me in this way?”

What is the matter may I ask That I’m not fitted for the task?

Words incoherent as he spoke, To others may have seemed a joke, As Patsy, shattered by this news, Desired to hear the Panel’s views.

The Doctor took him to one side, “Your palate cleft is much too wide, So we must fail you from the start, Though you’re so keen to play your part.”

Indignantly the reject cried, “I don’t see why I’ve been denied” “I only want to shoot them dead Not eat them with my bloody bread.”

Hymn 7-7 Bless me, guide me, Lord above, Do not let my spirit rove, Lest in weakness I should stray, From the righteous path each day.

In my mortal weakness here, I am tempted now I fear, To desert the humble way, Lest you hold my hand I pray.

Give that guidance, divine light,

Through the darkness of my night, Lead me, help me with thy love, To that heavenly home above.

The Monastery at Monserrat We scaled the heights of Monserrat The Monast’ry to see, Beholding there a sanctum fair In all its majesty, At noon we heard the choir-boys sing, In harmony so pure, While many gathered in that hall, Were rev’rently demure, And then in wonderment, a hush, Spread o’er those present there, As through the air, to bless us all Came sound of Sacred Prayer, For folk who travelled far and wide, Of varied creed and face, So evident with foreign tongues Who viewed this Holy place.

Those people felt the piety, Within that sanctuary, That aura spread embracingly On folk like you and me.

The Sante Maria Chapel at De Foix I reached the Chapel on the hill, There was no cell for me, But nigh to God, it thrills me still That wond’rous scene to see.

I wonder if I may return To view that lovely sight, Or will the flesh, my efforts spurn, Although the heart is right.

But I will have those mem’ries clear That I have known today.

I reached the Lady Chapel dear I see across the way.

By the Fleet Waters I loved to walk along the path Which leads besides the Fleet, Remembering the local lads Who there I chanced to meet.

To swim across the ebb or flood, Dictated by the tide, When vying in those waters deep To reach the other side.

But that was oh so long ago, Nigh seventy years or more, When in seclusion lived a man Upon that Chesil shore, Depending on those very gifts Which nature brought to hand.

The fish and timber for his need That West Bay would oft land.

His home it was a boat upturned To shelter from the gale, The doorway covered in its way By remnants of a sail.

Now many of those pals have gone Those characters I knew, And with their passing I have lost Companions good and true.

The man:- Dickie Frampton

Portland Heights Viewpoint From Top of Yeates we view the scene, Such grandeur on display, To show the varied temperament Of waters in Lyme Bay. Far to the west, the Start Point’s head There terminates the land, While in between the little ports, Complete the coastal strand, And to the east the shores enfold

The “Naples” of the south, Where tiny ships find mooring space Within the harbour mouth.

There close at hand, a haven wide, Encompassed safe and sound By stone extracted in the past From Portland’s humble ground, And we have known the Navy’s pride, The great ships anchored here, Those ironclads that ruled the seas, With escorts lying near, The Rodney, Nelson, Iron Duke, Many a noted name, Distinguished in the Battle Fleet, Historic Naval fame.

To head the picture, we can see That Ridgeway forms the crown And hiding by its eminence The ancient County town, But gathers in its vast embrace The homesteads far and wide, From Portland heights, there well defined A scenic countryside.

The Raft at Church Ope ‘Twas built of timber stout and sound, From hand-crane’s jibs and stays we found, Discarded in the quarries roads, No longer used to hoist the loads, When as a derrick, men would strain To lift stone from its deep domain.

We then constructed on the beach, Far above high-waters reach, A platform strong, where boys could play, Quite safe, in Church Ope’s little bay, Where moored, inside the Wears and Cheyne, No riding lights need to be seen.

But often there, the waves would sweep In from the English Channel deep, To pound the structure as it lay Within the heavy breakers way, And break the floats long mooring chain, To dash it to the shore again.

Where oft times we would make repair The damage by the rough seas wear With iron crab upon the land, We’d haul it up the pebbled strand, To where in safety, we could tend The ravage of the raft to mend.

Then heave it down onto the shore, And float it on the seas once more, Out to the mark, where we had found, A holding in the mooring ground.

And on the platform of their choice, The happy children would give voice, When joining in their revelry, To frolic in the summer sea.

Crab i.e. winch

Hamm They call it “HAMM”, I wonder why?

But here ‘twas safe I can’t deny, Where children small could swim and play Throughout the summer holiday, And picnic parties would be seen Upon the bank of grasses green, And for the children, room to spare, To frolic in the waters there.

Then when the salt sea’s tide was low The little cockle shells did show, And youngsters sought them far and wide, Until the next high flooding tide.

They’d hope the firemen heard their cry, As local trains went chugging by.

Portraying there a lovely view,

Enhanced by Naval craft we knew.

For all a haven sure was found, To make an ideal pleasure ground.

Then when the sun dropped in the Bay, T’was homeward bound, they’d make their way.

To later let those dreams take flight, When snuggled up on bed at night.

The Augury of Spring It’s now time to watch the snalters Come flying in from sea, Far spent at length to reach the Bill That sight we long to see.

For they suggest the warmth of Spring Is surely on its way, That scene dispels the wint’ry gloom, To brighten up the day.

Snalters - the Portland name for Wheatears

At the Sculpture Park I watched the sculptors working there To fashion blocks of stone, Created from their graphic dreams The carvers minds had known.

The tools they used were commonplace To masons in their day, But strange to those from other ploys To use the master’s way.

The chisel’s grip was strange to see, The hammer’s strangle hold, In time they’d change their working style With flowing strokes and bold.

And yet somehow I could admire The model when ‘twas done, I felt the project was worthwhile

And praises had been won.

To be quite fair, those novices Were keen to play their part, With hopes in time to make the grade, As sculptors in that art.

Full credit here, with just acclaim.

For those who thought to give, Encouragement to such a craft In stone, that it may live.

The Patriarch’s Lesson You are old Father George, the young man did say, Yet you are so sprightly in work and in play.

When you go for your walk, you step out in style Whatever the season and you seem so agile.

When playing your Bowls on that most Hallowed Green, You still hold your own with most players you’ve seen, And many triumphant encounters you’ve known, While trophies in numbers have through the years grown.

What secrets of health do you store in your mind That elixir sought, and in you, I might find?

Such gifts that you have, staying young all the while, Pray do you make use of a magical oil?

To soothe away pains from some sore troubled place, Which may burden the rest of our human race.

I’m afraid its not so, the patriarch said.

You struggle each day as your rise from your bed, Although it seems tough, you set out with a grin, Determined throughout, that the fight you will win.

Whatever the blow that you take on the chin You bounce back for more, you must never give in.

When you are subdued with your spirits depressed, Remember the favours with which you are blessed, And you whistle that song, telling you to “walk tall”, Giving thanks for the grace which each day may befall.

The Diehard As I walked down from Lankridge, To reach the beach below, I thought of all the faces, That once I used to know.

Who gathered by the ruins, Where Entree’s old walls stand, So I felt a sense of loss, With no-one there at hand.

I thought of many natives Who gathered by that nook, Recalling sundry noted salts That I could bring to book.

Like Joey, Tom and Ginger Who’d view the West Bay scene, Weighing up the elements For omens they might glean.

They’d chew the rag about the news, Pertaining to the times, Especially those people Who came from other climes.

Joey most vociferous Would ban our neighb’ring town From sending here their inmates, Restriction by the Crown.

He had no time for strangers Dictating to our ears, For we were self-sufficient Through many hundred years.

Joe would have a barrier Across the “Passage” way, To keep away those aliens Who have so much to say.

He blamed out local Council For lapses long ago, They forfeited our heritage Indeed Joe told them so.

Now Joey should have been there When making those decrees,

He would have banned the Kimberlins Who came from overseas.

Oh for a prudent spokesman Relieving all our fears, Those pitfalls that beset us For several recent years.

I wonder if that audience Across the Great Divide, Contemplate those past mistakes Which Joey oft decried.

I wonder if those men can see A “champ” to make a stand, A leader shrewd and gifted, To save our dear Portland.

The Urban Seagulls Winging masters of the sky Swooping round the rooftops high, Seeking titbits as they go In the busy streets below.

Living midst the chimneys tall Overlooking gardens small, Searching for the victuals there Scattered scraps of tasty fare.

Even in lampstandards beam With advantage of that gleam, Gliding like a yacht at night O’er the township’s brilliant light.

Scarce is food on shores near by Lofty cliffs, where nests should lie, Now to scavenge where they may Morsels, housewives throw away.

Iron Scrapers Where are the scrapers we saw ev’ry where Fixed firmly beside each front door?

So vital were they in days long ago For use, by both rich and the poor.

Each scraper was cast in iron so strong And varied in style oft’ were they, Embedded to bear the brunt of the strain From boots of a working man’s play.

And every morn’ each house-wife would clean That object for people to see, Like all of wares in the home, spick and span As new pins, no brighter could be.

Polished by blacklead, she’d use on the range, That monster she cleaned every day, And with the black-brush held in her hand The scraper she’d shine where it lay.

Such was the need for the scrapers we’ve seen, Because of the mud round about; Pervading the roads and paths near and far A bane for each house without doubt.

For engines when hauling the stone through the street On trucks, heavy laden were they, Churned in their path, the surface beneath Forming muck they made on the way.

Slime then, there coated the footwear we wore, Like glue it would cling to each pair, Needing removal, ere you went inside, Or cause great resentment once there, And so for each home, you found there was need For scrapers, which once you would find By thresholds, as you, walked in through the door And you left that road-dirt behind.

Peter the Parson There stands a man with a purpose To honour the cloth with his deed, To help everyone who needs him No matter what colour or creed.

He is there for babies, to name them He is there in their Sunday School years, He is there for their marriage to bless them He is there to allay all their fears.

His teachings ignored all too often That message to us one and all, Yet everyone knows where to find him He is ready to serve at one’s call.

A Bowler’s Dilemma He would hurry down for breakfast After a night’s repose, Then he’d hasten to the clubhouse For that pet game he chose, And to play there through the morning Upon that hallowed green, Then to dash off home at midday To wipe the platter clean.

The meal his patient spouse had laid Upon the table there, Professional was that repast So careful to prepare, Yet he would simply wolf it down A “gannet” in his way, No thought for his wife’s expertise Much to her great dismay.

Away he then would rush once more To leave her all alone, Intent to play the bowling game Quite heedless of her moan.

There is only one solution For such a sporting lad, To marry someone just the same A girl who’s Bowling Mad.

The Enigma of Life I wonder why I linger on

When many folk have long since gone.

What is the reason for my stay While those I loved have passed away.

Are there some measures to pursue, Before this life of mine is through?

Despite those problems that I share, I have for ages been aware There on my palm, a life line, long, Depicted very clear and strong!

Is there so much I’ve yet to give Throughout this life which I must live?

And yet I wonder what befalls Before I reach those Hallowed Halls Awaiting on the other side When I must cross that Great Divide?

The Psychic told me he had seen My loved one, in those pastures green, Who knew there was a prolonged wait Before I reached the Golden Gate.

But still, what is my purpose here?

Oh for a light, to make it clear, That I could then somehow design A programme I could well define.

Despite the wish that I might see I know life stays a mystery.

That enigma remains for all Until the final curtain call.

My Carnival Girl Oh how I loved that Gypsy girl, Who once I used to know, I saw her in the carnival, Parading with the show.

While many young and pretty maids, Were dancing in the street, With garlands waving in the air, To make the scene complete.

There from the float she smiled at me, To thrill me through and through, I thought her heart to captivate, As swift my ardour grew.

I watched the float pass slowly by, She stole my heart that day, I vowed to have her for my own, She looked so sweet and gay.

I courted her, that gipsy girl, Who then became my bride, As down the aisle she came to me, To stand there by my side.

And we were blessed that lovely day, Beside the altar there, We promised on the good book true, Our fortunes we would share.

So through the years we made our way, Mid gloomy skies and rain, And all the while her charm would flow, ‘Till sunshine smiled again.

But I am told we’ll meet again, And some how, I am sure, That gipsy girl will greet me there, Upon that distant shore.

The Mere It was a little haven In days of long ago, Or so the sages tell us, Those folk who ought to know.

And tiny ships from far away Made voyage to us here, Phoenicians, foreign traders,

Sought refuge in the Mere.

The Romans came in galleys, The Triremes with their slaves, With oars the motive power, To haul them o’er the wave.

Then the Saxon, Porte by name Made passage here as well, And next the Norman numbers, Who stayed for quite a spell.

Big King Hall in Tudor times, Thought of a castle strong, To guard against the raiders, Who sought to do us wrong.

He built it on the seashore, Close to the Mere’s small strait, Fashioned with our local stone To make a stronghold great.

Again invaders threatened, Old Boney’s men of France, The government decided then Defences to enhance.

And so a splendid harbour, Was planned to grace our shore, With many naval ships of line And matelots here galore.

And all the while, the farming, The quarrying as well, Besides the fishing business, Made this a busy cell.

In the Mere the sheep were dipped, To cleanse from mites that kill, The flocks were brought by shepherds

Down the incline from Tophill.

For they were most important In Portland’s livelihood, When Royalty found favour, In local choice of food.

When steam gave way to oil That needed storage space, The Mere was found the chosen spot, For its new housing place.

The site then needed filling And sand was pumped therein, From depths within the harbour, So building could begin.

Huge tanks were then erected, Edging the Mere they lay, With power for the Navy, That kept our foes at bay.

In time the aircraft came here, And with the fleet deployed, Thus with the Base located, The Mere was now destroyed.

Soon this Isle may be forgot When Naval ships have sailed, No more we’ll hear the bugles call, As sunset here is hailed.

So with the many changes, Our style of life has flown, Does it sound the death knell of The Portland we have known?

Or will it like the Phoenix, Rise from the ash once more,

And thus create prosperity, Salvation for this shore?

Long Ago I recall, long ago, the scenes in the street When “Coppers” we knew, walked around on their beat, The farthings were valued, for things you could buy But those days have now gone, “when I was a boy” In winter the roadway was covered in mire Then, you walked on your way, no cars were for hire!

In summer, the dust, it blew everywhere Driving the housewives to great lengths of despair And most strange to relate, men’s suits were in blue Ignoring conditions, well known the year through.

The craftsman would show by his hard bowler hat He was of distinction, quite clever at that.

The masons in Chis’el would walk up the street Revealing to people, who they chanced to meet They worked in the Yard, near Victoria Square, By wearing their aprons, a “moleskin” affair.

Then trousers of Fust’an a cloth stiff and stout Were worn in the quarries, for work, round about When bought, it is said, they would stand up alone As if supported by structures unknown.

Then, when they were worn, from the dirt to be free Short straps known as “Yarks” were tied at the knee.

I think of the Tradesmen who brought to the door The goods of your choice; most polite; from their store And various carts with their produce for sale Were always at hand, come sunshine or gale And bunnies were sold at nine pence per pair, Then the “Ragman” would call, for skins that were there The fruitier by peck, sold apples galore, “So hold up your pinnies, I’ve Russets and more”.

I recall now the shop, salt fish stacked outside All looking as tough as an elephant’s hide,

Exposed to the rain or sun in the sky Besides roaming dogs when they chanced to pass by But now, we’re refined, or so think, in our way, No longer subjected to dogs gone astray.

The fields have since gone, near the homes we once knew, The walks we had used, are now getting so few, Such old scenes have vanished from our aged gaze Replaced in this day by the new buildings maze.

Though all this is progress, or so we are told But I love to remember, those days of old.

My Island Home My homeland is a rocky Isle, Upon that southern shore, It’s on this Isle where I was born, And have no wish for more.

It’s there with other lads I played, And also went to school, St George’s, built those years ago, Where I obeyed its rule.

Then afterwards I learned my trade, To work the Portland stone, And study how the work was done, ‘Til I could stand alone.

As I was then compelled to do, In towns of wide renown, To stand my ground amongst the rest, Competing on my own.

But destiny bade me return, To those of my own kin, Where I enjoyed their company, Contentment there within.

No other place can I compare,

Where I would choose to be, And for those few remaining years, It’s Portland, home for me.

“Nemo” – W. Edwards Now “Nemo” was a man well versed, Outspoken in his day, He was a Portland Councillor, Persisting in his say.

When he graced the Council meetings He was certain to be heard, In any local argument Should someone doubt his word.

Debating was his forte, It was his great delight, To reason with the best of them And prove that he was right.

‘Twas in the Liberal colours He made his presentcefelt.

When at the polling hustings He’d make opponents melt.

With orat’ry beyond dispute And depth in what he said, ‘Twas difficult to fault his word, Once he a statement made.

Now “Nemo” was a teacher, Headmaster at his school, Where he used his authority And boys obeyed his rule.

Then came the day he took command Of Local Volunteers, He trained them up at Fancy Beach And also at the Wears.

When Kitchener was adamant That all should do their bit And “Nemo” was the man for him, To see his men were fit.

He had them digging trenches To keep the Huns away.

One trench is there in evidence Aligned o’er Church Ope Bay. Now “Nemo’s” long forgotten, Except by aged men, Who knew the man when in his prime He was of substance then.

Nemo: Latin nemine contradicente with nobody disagreeing.

The November Intruder ‘Twas known that Billy liked his ale, He supped in Delhi Lane, It wasn’t far to reach his door And settle home again.

But on that dark November night He tottered there quite late And instinct shaped the path for him, To reach the garden gate.

Once there, inside he saw a form, A stranger ‘twould appear And Billy with his spirits high, Then showed he had no fear.

He challenged that intruder, Without acknowledgement, So once again Bill questioned him, Was he on mischief bent?

Now Billy with his temper raised Went flailing with his mitts, He hit that figure heavily, And knocked it all to bits.

Then Billy seeing what he’d done Thought he had killed a man!

He rushed away for counselling To wise old Uncle Dan, Who went along to comfort him, To offer some support.

And calm that suff’ring relative, With friendly good rapport.

Arriving at the battle scene

Dan saw what had gone wrong, The children they had made a Guy, To help their funds along.

Tomorrow it was Fair Day, The Guy was their appeal, When asking folk to swell their purse For fun down Underhill.

Doubt I saw the errors of the past Unwittingly I’d made, Should I have played the deuce of Hearts?

Or trumped in with a spade?

For in my hand I held the cards To play them, right or wrong But on reflection, doubt occurred, With some misgiving strong.

Yet fate decreed I make a choice, I judged that it was fair, But with regret in retrospect, My vision failed me there.

But in life’s game I made my bid, To play as I deemed true And as the agent of that deed I must now see it through.

The Island of the Dead ‘Twas in the dark, dark ages, When hist’ry’s notes are vague, The varied tribes of Britain, Would through the country rage, And Arthur with his knights of old

Was one who reigned supreme, Around that place called Camelot, With its Round Table theme, And Merlin as their mentor, The sage and guide through life, When seeking inspiration In days of toil and strife.

It was such folk they honoured As fun’ral rites were read, When they brought them here to Portland, The Island of the Dead.

From Cadbury such cortege led Their worthy one to carry, Towards that Island far away, The revered one to bury, And so they travelled o’er the road To reach the southern shore, Until at length on Ridgeway’s height They viewed the scene before.

There in the distance they would see The object of their quest, Outstanding in the sea the goal, Wherein that soul would rest, But first the Passage they must ford, To reach the Causeway lane And all together stride by stride The burial site to gain, And there among the many mounds When tributes had been said, He’d rest within that sacred ground, On the Island of the Dead.

Upon this rocky windswept Isle In many years gone by, There would be seen the barrow tombs Where Chieftains here would lie.

This was their final resting place Tradition has it said, For noted leaders of the clan, With honours for the dead.

It is said that in ancient times it was to Portland that tribes brought their leaders to be buried.

The Gypsy Girl Another girl has left the scene Of CHESIL MEM'RIES cast.

When in the carnival parade A gypsy girl she'd been.

And being of that troupe so gay From CHESIL'S neighbourhood, With her dear father in the van, She laughed and danced away.

To hide her blonde and wavy hair A kerchief red she wore, And on her cheeks a mask of tan To hide her features fair.

No dusky maid in life was she Her eyes were lovely blue, And her complexion fittingly As Lily white should be.

Her nat'ral warmth and friendly style, Appealed to those she'd meet, Supported by her winsome charm, Surmounted by her smile.

But now we miss that love and care, So readily passed on.

The motherly rapport at home, The goodness lavished there.

Perryfield There lies a house severe in style, Outstanding in its day, Quite handy to the crossroads That met across the way.

And so ‘twas writ, there Pierstons lived Midst all their quarry land, *And in that story Avice dwelt, Her cottage near at hand.

How eerie in the night ‘twould seem, To those when living nigh.

When list’ning to those banshee screams, From blust’ry weather’s cry.

Should persons, oh so lonely dwell, To dread that ghosts might loom Along a draughty passage way, Or in a darkened room?

As on to Cheyne the seas they race To add to the furore.

Where rugged roaches strong must stem The onrush to the shore.

In early years one might behold, A train run o’er the road.

To pass along the track between The crossing, with its load.

Until ideas, conceived in vain, Were then withdrawn as void.

Such traffic was not warranted When finance was applied.

And from that spot there has been seen, Many a tragic view, When bombers scuttled merchant ships Regardless of the crew, Who often struggled for their lives, When thrown into the deep, More often there, to end their days With widows left to weep.

But later on, the thrill to see, That great armada sail Across the waters then to land, The combined fist of mail.

To punch their way through shot and shell, A footing there to keep, And then repulse the enemy In tank or humble jeep.

So many changes there has been, Progressive in their yield Since those stone walls were raised to form That house at Perryfield.

See “The Well-Beloved”

The Bike Ride at de Foix I thought to see the Chapel dear Upon the hill again, The St Maria’s edifice We knew in Northern Spain.

And feeling reckless in old age I thought to ride a bike, For someone who was eighty-odd ‘Twas safer on a hike.

Quite foolish then was I no doubt It was a long long way, A road that led through hills and dales I’d try it, come what may.

I made a very timid start And wobbled o’er the track, But then with growing confidence I seemed to get the knack.

No doubt I was most fortunate With Malcolm near at hand, For had there been an accident First Aid was on demand.

We made our way o’er rugged paths Quite safely in the end, Though it seemed dicey at the time Manoeuvring each bend.

We climbed up to the Chapel’s height To view the scenes around, The trees that graced the hillsides there Seen from that sacred ground.

At length we made for home once more ‘de Rosa’ and its charm, Within its walls the friendliness

‘La Casa’, grand and warm.

A Trivial Thing ‘Tis sad to think of families Who somehow disagree, And often o’er some pettiness, ‘Twould seem to you and me.

Once in the Southwell village Or so the story goes, Two very well known brothers Just added to their woes.

Tho’ they were named as “Lawyers” And so above such things, They must have known of troubles A dispute often brings.

They had thought to build a barn, One of gigantic size, Enough to stock-pile all their crops Should the need arise.

Then when the spacious barn was built Upon the family’s plot, It was decided by the pair They would divide their lot.

And so a carpenter was called To meet their every need, A high partition was then built Perfection in that deed.

Then it was a storm arose When measurements were made, Exacting in their scrutiny To vary by a shade.

A difference so minimal

Or so ‘twould seem to be, But most enormous to one man Who shouted angrily.

He had been cheated so he claimed, Three inches he had lost, Yet when the pricely bill was paid He’d shared the heavy cost.

Match-boarding had been fitted Onto a three inch frame, Unfairly nailed to his own side That was the plaintiff’s claim.

Why one should rant about such loss When there was room galore, For they had ample for their needs Within that lofty store.

Thus was the quarrel long pursued Until one’s dying day, And so the other made amends To see him on his way.

But that was nigh impossible The “Screws” had rendered pain, His body’s form had suffered And nearly bent in twain.

His two sons solved the problem With both their hands entwined, They formed a strong cats-cradle Two stalwart hearts combined.

Thus, they carried their old father Along the village street, To see that those two elders Should make their pact complete.

And so at last, ere ‘twas too late

Those brothers did repent, That bitterness had been extreme Until their lives were spent .

The Last of the Cast When writing of Chis’ell in years long ago, And the villagers there, that I used to know, Of a great many folk who you’d chance to meet, With the boys and the girls of that busy street.

Amongst them, a fair lass, who once I well knew, That girl known to Wobbler as Miss Betty Blue, Who really was frail, as a child very small, But grew to be pretty, I chose to recall.

To be an “high-stepper”, I knew in her prime, Though so long ago, aye, a very long time.

Appealing was she with her bearing and style, And many young men thought a glance was worthwhile, But folk of that Chis’ell, she knew in her day, Have long since been gone, they have most passed away.

That girl has now joined them, and she is the last, Of those “Chis’ell Mem’ries”, there, one of the cast.

Billy’s Lament There were two brothers John and Bill, Who lived together on Tophill, Their mother sought their ev’ry need, For she had two great lads to feed.

They slept together in one bed, It saved a lot of work, Mum said!

But years ago, ‘twas commonplace, When homes were small with lack of space.

And so it was in younger days, They suffered their odd bachelor ways, Until one day, it came to pass, That John should meet a bonnie lass.

From that rare moment, romance loomed, But in Bill’s view, our John was doomed, He’d lost his partner, it was plain, Now he must walk a lonely lane.

Then came the day, when all was said, The couple thought that they should wed, And wedding-bells, at length were planned, While Bill thought, marriage should be banned.

And when the honeymoon was due, ‘Twas then Bill said, can I come too?

It was pathetic, he did moan, I’ve never slept in bed alone.

My Mentor He was my mentor, reading verse, In rhythm and in rhyme, I listened to his good advice To emulate, in time, As he had listened in the past To people that he knew, Who told the tales of long ago, And so his knowledge grew, Of villagers with quaint odd ways, He knew them as a boy.

They told about the spooky things That set out to annoy, Such were the stories that he told The yarns of days gone by, Which eager ears would listen to, Those fans like you and I. He had the most endearing gift, To charm and so engage The audience that followed him, As one who trod the stage.

His talent showed in many ways, In music and in trade, And by the practice of his skill

A great impression made.

Most carefully he chose to speak, As would a worthy sage, When asked to probe a special cause Sound judgement he’d engage.

I wonder will we see his like, In days that are to be, A guardian angel of this Isle To fight adversity.

Billy Skilly It was back in nineteen hundred, At least, so I was told, By a relative much younger, Who spoke of kinsman bold.

Have you heard of Billy Skilly, The Stalwart Volunteer, Who off to camp with pals he went, Their holiday that year.

To coincide at Southsea, With a most enormous Fair, It covered several acres, A spectacular affair And Billy with his Army mates, They toured around the shows, And looked for special challenges, Excitement there they chose.

For them, that was a huge brown bear, Of monstrous looking size, And any man who wrestled it, Was offered then a prize.

Now Billy was a quarryman, Who wrestled blocks of stone, Hoisting them from quarry bed, Quite sturdy he had grown.

And for that task he needed strength, With muscles firm, like steel, To overcome the elements, Quite vigorous, we feel,

Then Billy weighing up the bear, He thought he’d have a go, And caught the eye of him in charge, The man who ran the show.

Soon, off came Billy’s coat and cap, To all his mates alarm, They thought he had no chance at all, Would surely come to harm, But Billy was so insistent, He’d had a pint or two, And he staggered to the ringside, Away from those he knew.

‘Twas not the bear he had to fight, His pals made their arrest, They grabbed him ere he went too far, And came off second best.

Though Billy now was fighting mad, His fists were flailing wide, But he was smothered by his chums, And kicking, hauled outside.

They calmed him down with promises Of Pompey’s ales galore, They’d tour about that Naval Port, And pubs they could explore.

Returning to their Island home, The news soon spread around, There was a man of valour here, A champion had been found

Wren’s Wine Glass I searched and searched in vain ‘twould seem, For that elusive quarry sign, A mark cut in a Portland stone Which Wren could claim, that stone is mine!

Such numbers in the Wears are found, Those blocks, well squared in perfect line, Yet none would bear the mark I sought

That quested wine-glass, Wren’s design.

Oh for a clue where I should look Amongst the stones, all strewn around, So many are there to be seen Within that wild and tumbled ground.

I wondered is there such a stone?

Engraved with symbol bold and clear, But unrewarded was my quest, When combing through the vast East Wear.

A Rocky Playground Among the workings boys oft played Where men had won the stone, Cut from the bed-rock of the Isle With skills forbears had known.

Those workers would a shelter build A refuge from the rain, When caught about their daily task In that exposed domain.

Amid those old abandoned sites Such shelters made a lair, It was a playground for young boys A venturesome affair.

There lads explored the quarries maze Of many an old track-way, Between the roaches stacked up high *In “Tout” and near “Emsay”.

Those boys found pleasure, oft to build A fire, the tinder came From wild surroundings near that spot, They’d chosen for their game.

The youngsters would potatoes bake

Scrounged from a mother’s store, When her attention was elsewhere Upon a busy chore.

Although most times the skins were charred And spuds were under-done, It mattered not about hygiene When boys were having fun.

“Inmosthay” known of old as “Emsay”

Impressions Their faces often haunt me, Those masons I once knew, From far and wide they came here And were a skilful crew.

Some came here from London town With Cockney songs and quip, Whilst others came from Devon With tool-bags and their grip.

And “Turks” arrived from Swanage, That was their non-de-plume, When “Badgers” came from Yeovil This title, they’d assume.

Paddy came to work as well, He was the roaming kind, A friendly rogue we found him, As you could bring to mind.

He liked his glass of tipple, T’was part of his life’s sap, Without it Paddy would be lost, Most woe-begone poor chap.

Wanderlust came over him,

He could not here remain, Having silver for his needs He packed his bag again.

But masons by tradition Would move from place to place, They’d ply their trade where needed, To add palatial grace.

But many were more stable, With locals they combined, They courted Portland ladies, Then nuptial vows were joined.

Those masons brought their wisdom, Such knowledge gleaned through years, Those pearls of wisdom taught us Experience for our ears.

Our dialect then altered, More urban it became, Portland’s strange vernacular Was never quite the same.

I wonder in its passing, Was something lost as well, Fellowship of long ago Now only time will tell?

With Kimberlins entrenched here In this community, We’ve lost that isolation And insularity.

Now we are all united In varied race and creed, Regardless of our dialect, By universal need.

The Stage of Life Is there in life an unknown force Which guides us on our way, Determining the path we take To walk from day to day, And are we just a vital link In some enormous scheme, Obeying in this world of ours A most inspiring theme, With actions governed by a string Pulled by the puppeteer, Who governs ev’ry step we take Throughout our life-time here, Manipulated in a play Upon a global stage, A tableau by that dramatist The great almighty Sage?

Apprentice Chiselbats In leisured time we used our tools To emulate the best, Those men who are well recognised They stood out from the rest, And showed the way the work was done With guile achieved through years, Which we in time must equal Or beat that of our peers.

But with the term of learning done Could each colt make the grade, Could he compete as man to man Pass muster at the trade.

Chiselbats i.e. bat, the mark left on the surface of the stone by the chisel.

Chiselbats. Jimmy Durston’s term for Banker masons.

Alan I saw him as he walked along The wand before him leading,

I sensed his certainty was strong To where the path was heading.

I could admire the confidence With purpose in his stride, There was no sign of diffidence And blindness he defied.

So many years he’d walked that way When sight was at his bidding, He’d seen that path by light of day When life had been fulfilling.

Then he could read the notes that made The melodies worth hearing, As o’er the keys his fingers strayed To make the strains endearing.

But now he has the gift to sense The iv’ries as he knew them, His kindly soul would find offence Should flaws result in mayhem.

A man admired by one and all And stoic come whatever, He does not flinch when ills befall Quite fearless of all weather.

Our Island Museum There was a notion long ago To house the relics of the past, Proud possessions through the years But now on public view at last.

For Marie Stopes of wide renown Proposed that those antiques should be, Within a house of ancient lines Exhibited for all to see.

She chose a cottage picturesque With thatched built roof, to form Above those solid stone built walls Protection from a winter’s storm.

And through the years the treasured gems Were gleaned from far and wide, From oddities to commonplace Made manifest for all inside.

Portraying there our history Revealing life in days of yore, Most primitive to you and I They add tradition to our lore.

The artefacts throughout the years Have multiplied in varied style, With tools of flint and mammoth bones A show piece worthy of our Isle.

Playing the Game How have you fared in life my son?

How many prizes have you won?

Have you somehow stood tall with pride, When acting manly for your side?

To play the game with honesty, Devoid of any trickery.

Acknowledged by opponents there For keeping to the rules, and fair, Most welcomed by the teams you play, For acting in that sporting way.

If you have stood the supreme test Endeavouring to do your best, There’s nothing more that you can do, When acting thus your whole life through.

Values When someone flaunts before your face His tainted, ill - begotten gold, Has he some other saving grace?

Or does he grasp a barren fold?

What has that greed brought to that pen?

And for its gain what has he lost?

Would he share everything with men Regardlessly of any cost?

In spite of all his garnered wealth, Does he possess a cherished love, Who lacks that priceless gift of health In spite of prayers to one above?

And does that coin return to him A child who’s gone - but not forgot?

While unto him the chance grows dim That boy or girl can e’er be got.

What values to you have appealed?

Would yours extend to avarice?

Or has the truth to you revealed Oft gain is never worth the price?

Then looking inward on your life Are bounteous gifts on you bestowed, Such beauty as a faithful wife And children gay to you endowed.

Can you gaze straight at every man, Disowning deeds which causes ire.

To stand erect when all is done, Then you have much one can admire?

A Vigil Kept With sombre thoughts and quiet careful tread I crossed the Ward to reach her trim made bed, And there with heavy eyes and face quite pale, It seems she tarried lonely by the Vale, For signs of welcome o’er the Great Divide, As silently I waited by her side.

She roused and faintly murmured words unclear But, as I spoke, was conscious I was there, And gathered comfort, with responding strength, Her face, it lost that pallored look at length, A colour that my anxious eyes beheld, To bring relief, my deepest fears were quelled.

The Sister called - ‘twas time for us to part, I rose, and kissed her lips, with leaden heart I left her bed, to make my lonely way Till there united in another day, One lingering look to watch her as she slept, A brief, but very ready vigil kept.

Mastermind It seemed a funeral dirge did sound, To herald in the opening round, ‘Approaching Menace’ styled so meet, For that portentous sombre seat, As if to warn each rival there,

When seated in that lonely chair, Of snags which many questions bore, To trap contestants in their lore, Spontaneous must their answers be While there exposed for all to see, As Magnus sought for evidence, Before a nation’s audience.

The Obscene Moggy When I was small, I heard Dad tell, About the neighbours cat, called Nell.

It was a scraggy, mangy thing, And sores all over it did cling.

But further more that cat would sprawl Upon the high dividing wall, Which separated our back door From those who lived in number four.

To see it there caused Mum to frown, Especially when we sat down To eat the scrumptious meal she’d place, Upon the table there to grace.

But though prepared to eat the food That cat made us feel far from good, As through the window we could see That awful grim obscenity.

Until at last dear Mother said ‘Can’t you do something with it Fred’?

So Father gently left the room To carefully grasp hold the broom, Which stood outside the kitchen door, As if it all was planned before, And feeling that his cause was just, He gave the cat a mighty thrust.

It must have been caught by surprise To vanish from before our eyes: Dad carefully the door then closed In case the act had been exposed, To those upon the other side,

Although the yard was eight feet wide.

Then as Dad hummed an old refrain He casually sat down again, To regale in the tasty fare, Which Mum had laid before him there.

Now later, when the weekend came, Someone it seemed did call Dad’s name, As he was pottering around With flowers in his patch of ground, Which there behind the house did trace, The necessary bound’ry space.

That call was from our neighbour, who Had nothing better he could do, Than want to talk of this and that, But most of all about the cat.

‘Do you know Fred’, our neighbour said, ‘That I am very much afraid, We had to drown our Nell you see The blighter made a leap at me.

As I washed with the door ajar It landed on my neck, by Gar, And scratched my face and neck I fear, But why thar lunch-time it turned queer I’ve tried to think, but can’t explain: I s’pose something had turned its brain.

It cost me all of half-a-crown To have the blessed thing put down’.

My father turned his head aside To hide the smile which grew quite wide: He’d had no wish to cause a row, The trouble had been settled now.

No longer would that cat instil The feeling which made us feel ill, We all could now enjoy our food Which there upon the table stood.

And like the old proverbial kite, Blow out our tummies nice and tight.

Benevolence Forsaken Again we hear the carols sung, The chimes within the belfry rung, To herald in, to men on earth Acknowledgement of Jesus’ birth.

And yet throughout there is the need To honour now, the Christian creed.

We hear instead, of endless strife The disregard of human life.

Starvation, rampant we have seen Depicted daily on a screen, A living person’s bony frame, So great the cant, so great the shame.

The universal lack of care, Yet in abundance, food to spare, To satisfy their vanity, So many crave supremacy, Surpassing love, with greed for gain, Was Jesus sacrificed in vain?

Despite that feeling of forlorn ‘Twas through his love that hope was born, As he upon the cross there gave The absolution, to that knave.

Unto that thief, he was a friend, Benevolent until the end.

The Seance Uneasy sat the mourner there In contemplation of the scene, Where now, the medium in his prayer Commended to the circle keen, That they should meditate a while Until the mental message ran, When kindred spirits would beguile With signs that they had made the span.

And with the seance growing tense That person in the mystic cell,

Thought on this deep intuit sense And fascinated by the spell, With hope the wait was not in vain ‘Till some responding guide came clear, Trajecting from another plane To link with folk upon this sphere.

In answer to that earnest prayer For voices calling on his ear, That in the psychic zone ‘twas fair Allaying any doubt or fear, And in that heavenly space beyond Where peace reigns ever more, Retaining still that vital bond Two souls communing as before.

The Haven When searching high and low, at last I’ve found my dream home from the past.

Its ancient walls have changes known, As folk beneath its roof have grown, And played around its portal small, Within the range of mother’s call.

My youthful mem’ries rooted here By beauteous scenes to be found near, The Weares and sheltered Church Ope Cove, And varied paths o’er which to rove.

This Haven means so much to me A shelter and security.

Your Tapestry Revealing With the twilight shadows falling, While the flickering flames are calling, When you sit alone and ponder, Of the mystique in life’s wonder, Does a tapestry there unfold, Make manifest a field of gold?

On history’s cloth are you arraigned?

Were all the scenes for you ordained?

And clearly was your chart revealed, Or parts obscure somewhat concealed?

Compelled to walk a rugged track, Eternally upon a rack, With figures hid in dominoes, Imposing on your cares and woes.

Or dominates One, over all, Who watches o’er what may befall, To mark upon your open file That your demeanour was worth - while, With a bright horizon tending, When your presence here is ending.

The Bird-Bath Not quite a supreme work of art The bird-bath that I made, But with its tooling played the part To emphasise my trade, Which often masons once allied To any chaste design, And with their lore the tools applied Each ‘bat’ in straight align.

But now this work in Portland stone Is far beyond its prime, The clean white look has long since gone, And weathered dark through time, The masony with tooling bold, The basin that it bears, Has lichen which maintains its hold, Enriched by heavens tears.

‘Bat’ is the mark left by the Boaster (chisel) when struck by the mason’s mallet. Oblique in the normal dressing of stone, but perpendicular when the stone has to be tooled.

Our Isle of Refuge We often missed our habitat,

The freedom we had known, The greetings and the friendly chat Midst folk with whom we’d grown.

When in the past we found the need, Within the Smoke to toil, Where some thought us a lesser breed, With accents of our Isle.

We found the city’s flow of crime Was held with great restraint, And folk in their content sublime Felt nought to make complaint.

Though many ladies traded there To strut with ready smile, And brazenly to flaunt their ware With ev’ry trick and guile.

The blackshirts listened to the fuse Lit by their leader’s call, When rallying to Moseley’s views, To haste the Red Star’s fall.

Through passing years the city’s life Has changed with increased crime, Now felony throughout is rife, Which adds to London’s grime.

The police find they are impotent To check the roguery, While thieves thrive in their keen intent To wield supremacy.

The Capital’s transforming face, Presenting misery, Must now alarm the populace With such depravity.

The folk who have the means for change

Gladly make their escape, Though far away they now must range To miss the vice and rape.

Some make this peaceful Isle their home For here they freedom find, Clear bracing air, the space to roam, But, best, a tranquil mind.

Smoke:- London.

Thoughts Unkind Should I have listened unto thee, With malice borne for all to see?

I’d never have a friend at hand, To aid me o’er the rocky strand, No one to greet me day by day, As I pass by along the way, So dull and aimless would life be, If I had listened unto thee.

Senorita Far Away Oh lady in that foreign land, Where you must stay a while, Do you prefer those warmer climes, With diff’rent folk and style?

You have acquired their mother tongue, Quite fluently you speak, Do you desire the life some lead, Those higher spheres to seek?

Would you prefer the idiom, The dialect you’ve known, Those simple ways your forbears knew, From whence your roots have grown?

No doubt you often bring to mind, The love for you at home, Before you deemed to leave the nest Those other fields to roam!

But you will find a welcome here,

When you return once more, Perhaps to settle down again, Ensconced upon this shore.

(Tara)

The Temptress Delilah with a diff’rent name, Do you aspire to win such fame, As that fair lass of ancient days, With charming looks and winning ways?

Have you by chance a men’s harem, Entrapped within your lair, the cream You have selected as your choice, Who pay respects with pleading voice, And beg for favours you might give, To make it worthwhile they should live, Lest they in utter woe might be Compelled to lives of misery.

Oh luscious sweet refined temptress, Why cause your many swains’ distress, Have mercy on those men you meet Who kneel in homage at your feet.

They are but human after all, While you it seems all men enthrall.

Now should a warning note arise, Lest they are taken by surprise And caught within that web you weave, Where subjects there have no reprieve, And there entranced beguiled they stay Adoring you from day to day.

(Dawn)

The Photograph I look to her photo upon the high shelf, With that smile Mona Lisa once knew, I think of her fairness and say to myself, While together, we saw the years through.

And she is there smiling, that girl I recall, Though no longer to counsel me here,

Or give me comfort in life’s dying role, As I once could rely on her cheer.

From there up on high, she is gazing at me As I knew her, in days long ago, I wonder if now, through the mists she can see, The life - style, which alone, I must know.

I wonder if now, she still acts as my guide While I live through the hours of each day, Just as it once was, through those years by my side, With the troubles we knew on the way, I feel she’s at rest, with those folk of her life, But no more with the pain’s she once bore, The worries, the heart - aches, which sometimes were rife, Now she’s safely upon that lee shore.

He Would a Poet Be ‘I wish I could write a great poem’, he said, Sitting poised with a pen in his hand, And later be noted and widely well read, With my writings in constant demand.

Now many the thoughts flowing swift, through his head, And a story of love - life sublime, With various tales which his memory fed, If he only had rhythm and rhyme.

However the words, all confused, would not flow, They just spun round and round in a whirl, He wished he was fluent, if only to show, All his love for that glamorous girl.

And he stuttered along, composing his lay, Feeling weary and trapped then somehow, Like a stag, when cornered and held there at bay, With the sweat dripping fast from his brow.

Exausted at length, with his head drooping down, And his fingers thrust through his long hair, ‘I’ll never’, he quoth, ‘wear the Laureate’s crown’,

And his pen threw away in despair.

Beware all you dreamers, composing that ode, When bright thoughts and choice words may not flow, Whatever the rhythm and lines ‘a la mode’, In the end there’s no sequence I vow.

A Soul in Torment (As a wife grieved for her husband passing away.)

The trumpet blew, and I was left alone.

Must I somehow by penitence atone For sins ascribed within the remote past?

How long must this, my purgatory last, To haunt me in this wilderness I find Pervading now my broken heart and mind?

Did I transgress to justify this fate, Which seems relentless in its cruel spate?

In my despair am I compelled to purge My soul, to make a claim, and strongly urge For my redemption in this darkest night?

Grant me exoneration in my plight, To soothe my grief, and acting like a balm Guide my wrought spirit to a haven calm.

Our Church The Church’s one foundation Is Jesus Christ the Lord, We’re needing your donation All that you can afford, The roof wants renovation So give with one accord, For that same reparation To hear his Holy Word.

The Hungry Years Those days are now past, with the struggle for credit, The plight of the workless, the want and the debit.

It seemed at the time the long lane had no turning,

Creating resentment and malice slow burning, To grow and to fester, consuming the spirit, One wondered what fate held, what future lay in it.

It seemed no one worried as to how you might live, When facing the Means Test for the dole they might give.

But the tide when it turned gave to many relief, More over decorum and a sense of belief.

A Yuletide Wish Would that peace o’er Jordan reined, A friendship forged and goodwill gained, But in that land where Christ was born, The cries for peace seem all forlorn.

While neighbours seek supremacy Ignoring thoughts of clemency, The world looks on with great dismay, To see such hatred on display.

Is there a formula at hand To solve the problem, that will stand The test of time, with wrongs forgiven Bringing forth, ‘Great Joy from Heaven’.

Farewell With great regret we leave today This house of rest for ever, Although we have fond mem’ries here, This bond we now must sever.

And we must travel far and wide, To pastures which are new, And to this place, with thought so dear We must bid sad adieu.

Composed for Malcolm’s gang at the Admiralty Estabishment, who left on September 13th 1996, when it closed down.

West Bay There on Top Yeates I take my rest And view the scene before,

The waters of that great expanse That reach beyond the shore.

I’ve seen it in a peaceful mood, Like mirror - glass ‘twould seem, And sometimes in a rippling form, As in a playful theme.

I’ve seen it when a ground - sea roars, As skyward it would strain, And having reached a towering height, Would thunder down again.

But rage begets its mood at times, Then great respect is due, Or pay the penalty at length, When careless deeds accrue.

What dramas have beset this scene, The shipwrecks of the past.

When mariners in olden days Then sailed before the mast.

Secluded Ways I wonder what the cellars hid Beneath the Chis’el street, And where did lead the passages, To secret spots discreet.

The little hidden cubby holes Concealing there the cask, Completing in the urgency That ever risky task.

When sturdy Portland fishermen Had made that distant haul, With goods obtained from overseas, Those places, such as Gaul.

When times were very difficult, With scanty means to live, Acquiring there, such fancy fare

That foreign fields could give.

And sail them safely to these shores Across the Channel wide, To land with caution in the night And then the spoils divide.

Before the lurking Excise men, The prying ‘Gobby’ spies, Had time to pounce and confiscate The very hard won prize.

What well held secrets in those days Did ‘Entree’ homes conceal, What would a visit to the ‘Swan’ That ancient inn reveal?

When standing in the village street So many years ago.

Where we with int’rest now behold The well - known ‘Beach’ we know.

If only those old fishing folk Could bygone yarns review, About the varied Chis’el life That once our forbears knew.

The worthwhile stories of the past We’d dearly love to hear, But with their passing, so was lost The tales of yester - year.

Dawn’s Departure When Dawn begins her first approach To start her working day, We look to see what odd effect Was caused along the way, When out at night with other girls There painting red the Town, Will Dawn in time find further fame A name of great renown?

Or will she find her life subdued Confined to pastures new, But knowing Dawn she would opine

To lead another crew.

Where ere Dawn goes she beats the rest And wins by quite a mile, With confidence and true to form Dawn carries on in style.

We trust her madcap escapades May not result in blame, But that her noted expertise Brings lustre to her name.

Written for Dawn when leaving P77 and Portland to live in Wales.

Adieu We wish you well dear bonnie lass And bid you now, adieu, We trust that you will think of us As we will think of you.

Now you are free to go your way Along with husband Bob, To gallivant in foreign fields What ever be his job.

A fraulein now you may become A status yet unknown, But we will always think of you Dear Lily as our own.

Yet who will fill that vacancy To tackle every task, Which you complete so readily It is so much to ask.

But bear in mind where ere you go Wherever you may roam, Although there may be spendour There is no place like home.

Written for Lily who left P77 to go to Germany with her husband who was in the NAFFI. She later went to the Falklands.

The Punishment Cell in the Villa

‘At the End of the Universe’ I think of the room, in the house on the hill, Is it used as a punishment cell?

For those in the basement, remote from the rest, A man could in penitence dwell.

Is it there, that past lovers, must pay for their sins, To be fed on just water and bread, “Till after a while, one is granted reprieve, And forgiven the life that he’d led?

Would the door of that room, be bolted and barred, There deprived of the light of each day, Where that man, recalling the sins of the past, Goes down on his knees there, to pray?

I’ve looked for the habit, the dress of the day, The skull cap to complete the whole set.

There in that small room, where he’d live by himself, Till that day of redemption is met.

Of Those We Knew Where are those figures of the past Who sought the limelight’s glow, What mem’ries have they left behind That you would choose to know?

How many people have you known With blatant ego’s showing, What contributions have they left That mankind finds worth knowing?

But they are hard to find, I search to find some men of note Does man require that rivalry To stimulate the mind?

For it would seem from age to age Through hist’ry we may learn,

The wheel of life may oft reveal Men of like ilk return.

Confinement When you are old and weary, Your home a confined cage, See the freedom that you once loved decrease, With the liberty you knew, When you were young and fey, Convinced that joys of youth would never cease.

But age and cares take over, A struggle life becomes, To blight the many pleasures you have known, You feel your arms are leaden, The heart aches take control, Like walls around you, steadily have grown.

There gazing by the window, You watch the folk pass by, As unaware, they hurry on their way, You ponder on the urgency Of errands they have done, While questioning the pace of life today.

Those bars across the window Seem like a prison cell, When so endlessly the hours seem to go, You later draw the curtains As twilight now descends, Then to linger by the cheery fire’s glow.

Our Motherly Guide I wonder does she clear the path Which leads us on our way, To free us from the obstacles That form from day to day?

I wonder has she divine sight

To help us to our goals, The power to promote the scene To play our earth - bound roles?

I wonder when the curtain falls When we have served our time, Will we together, be as one In that celestial clime?

A Wearied Passing I saw him there, nigh to the end, He suffered so much pain, Faintly he said goodbye to us Until we meet again.

And slowly as he passed away Relief for us was clear, ‘Twas agony beyond the pale For someone we held dear.

And was it then his soul took flight, With window opened wide, A swarm of flies passed in and out The moment that he died.

The cloud had hovered o’er the bed So clean and neatly made, As if awaiting for a sign To bear away his shade.

By such a cortege, carried high, That spirit tired and worn, Was he in wraithlike form, unseen On heavenly pathway borne.

Father passed away 28th August 1945.

The Nightingale ‘Twas near the ancient Castle’s Keep We heard that lovely song, The nightingale in ceaseless voice, Was heard the whole night long.

It was a wistful melody, A love song he did trill, As through the midnight air it flowed, A lonesome, strong appeal.

Perhaps some day a mate will call, To make a rendezvous, While he in blissful harmony Will plight his love - song true.

A Prayer for Christmas Though the carols tell their story Of the Royal Saviour’s birth, Warring factions fail to listen To that call for Peace on Earth.

Frequently that Holy City In the land where Christ was born Nurtures disputes ever daily, Endless prayers seem all forlorn.

Would that some peacemaker flourished Whose authority prospered there, Her counsel with accord accepted Bringing answers to our prayers.

Cap Stone I like the way Cap stone can write, And the way his stories bite, He has the knack, I think is clever, To the point, then, come whatever.

Surely he has footings here, Grandma, Grandpa, someone dear, Someone who passed on their knowledge, I wonder, has he been to College.

I ask this question, I’m perplexed, With his satire, never vexed, Should his words be truth or rumour, I enjoyed his crafty humour.

(Cap Stones used to write poetry for the Free Portland News)

I Pray For Guidance My home becomes my Chapel, There in soliloquy I voice aloud my troubled thoughts, And seek a remedy.

I pray that someone listens To grievances I find, With answers to my problems To pacify my mind.

My thoughts they tumble to and fro I seek some justice there, But maybe I’m in error, I need a ruling fair.

Whence from our Saviour up on high A guidance I pursue, For in our Lord, I lay my trust, To help the whole day through.

Jabez and Sue Before the milk was pasteurised And that was long ago, None had thought it vital To kill germs’ embyros.

That may have thrived in days gone by When hygiene was neglected, Besides the garlic to the taste ‘Ere dairies were inspected.

Straight to the door the milk was brought From farmyards far and near, To churns fixed to the horse and cart To homesteads everywhere.

Now Jabez had a little farm And on ‘Top Slobbs’ it lay, Where he and Sue did labour hard To make the business pay.

While Jabez he was lean of form His sister’s size was ample And thus was like the nursery rhyme To make a perfect sample.

Their customers were regular And they were spread around, For Jabe and Sue to haul the milk From ‘Slobbs’ and up by ‘Pound’, And then to fill the china jugs When folk came to the door, No uniforms had they to wear Just working clothes they wore.

Most strange it was to see the pair Each one their task had taken, While Jabez carried little cans, ‘Twas Sue most heavy laden.

Upon her shoulders lay a yoke To bear the leaden weight With chains to hold the heavy cans

Filled with their liquid freight.

In sufferance Sue plodded on But why? You well may ask Supposedly, one would assume ‘Twas her allotted task And normal in those days of yore With maids beholden then.

Sue was an early ‘Land Girl’ Of Weston’s yesteryear.

Like many old time characters Bring mem’ries we hold dear.

Bill Cook and The Fleet I look at the painting that hangs on the wall A scene that to me is so grand, And I think of Bill Cook and his tales of the Fleet, Ingrained like the back of his hand.

The Narrows he knew ev’ry inch of the way, The channels to use or the banks to avoid, The best spots for fishing and the times of the tide, He was ever the angler’s best guide.

Bill knew Chesil Beach and the shelter it gave, The terrain and how it was formed, The weather that pounded the Beach from the West, With hurricane force as it stormed.

But Bill has now gone, he was one of the few Who added to knowledge of yore, The life in the High Street, so long long ago And the want that was known by the poor.

But always the Fleet with the fish in its stream, Would add to the fare that they knew, Plus the mack’rel they caught on Chesil’s far side, With the aid of the Lerret’s strong crew.

The Local Tragedy Today we find propriety Is lost throughout the land, Immodesty is prevelent

And ever in demand.

Where indecorum sought rebuke It’s now the fashion here, Exposure is unlimited Where privacy was held dear.

But tragedy of long ago Horrific in its day, Indecency had come to light A man was made to pay.

He had molested someone A girl or so ‘twas said, And with such wide exposure The blame lay on his head.

No chance to prove his innocence He was condemned outright, His fellows shunned him out of hand A cruel and sorry plight.

A leper to his country men Who no one wished to know, In isolation he must walk A sad unkindly blow.

And so one day they found him, To them a fearful shock, For in the Garden’s boundary He hanged beneath the Clock.

Thoughts of Levi Green Had notices been posted here Where ever lanes might be, That gave access to pastures green For ev’ryone to see?

Would Levi heed such notices Forbidding him the right, To roam where he had always been, He’d surely test their might.

For Levi lorded all around The pastures of Sweethill, He knew the favoured fishing ground And tides that swept the Bill.

His knowledge of the country side Was way beyond compare, For Levi knew each habitat That nature offered there.

But Levi could be ruthless As many folk well knew, No one could doubt his courage When ever storms might brew.

And so with opposition Who’d quote a legal saw, For Levi on his patch was Peer He was himself, the Law.

East Weare Operation The piers were most important As history has shown, When Wren required them for his task Rebuilding London Town.

Where devastation took its toll When fire swept through the place, And many of its citizens Had flown that ruined space.

Its resurrection, Wren then planned So stone was in demand, Here on this rocky Isle of ours Was stone, with tons at hand.

‘Twas waiting in its natural bed For man to lever free, To then be dressed by quarrymen, No hardier men you’d see.

And artisans were most surprised To find such acc’racy, When workmen could, with tools so crude, Work to such high degree.

But Wren then thought the total sum Of all the stone, might fail, His architect’ral vision Was on a grandiose scale.

Restrictions were then posted An embargo was thus made, Preventing other builders Partaking in the trade.

And so the blocks were carted Down to the little quays, Where barges would be waiting For cargoes such as these.

To sail along the Channel deep To where townsfolk could see, The splendour of our Portland Stone In all its Majesty.

Gloves Now Joe he was a quarry lad About to reach his prime, He noticed fellows that he knew Reacted with the times, Discarding their knitjackets blue To wear a shirt and tie, And other new accessories Of which which they once were shy.

Their sap was rising nat’rally As each young body grew, And girls took their attention With startling thoughts so new.

Now with the winter coming on Joe thought some gloves he’d buy, Not just the hand - made knitted type But those to catch the eye, There were the doe - skin leather ones

The gauntlet kind as well, He needed something special Then he could look quite swell.

And later as he sat at home Joe mentioned of his need, To be in fashion with his pals And hoped his folk agreed.

Joe’s hopes were doomed to failure His father was upset, To think his lad should wear such things Just like a pampered pet.

“Gloves, Gloves”, his father exclaimed, “To think you’re of my kind, No quarryman would wear such things, So get that off your mind.”

As Joe ‘Trot’ Pearce told of himself.

The ‘Ran’, The Quarryman’s Wreck January 11 th 1894 ‘T’was early on, in ninety - four, When in a wint’ry gale, The ‘Ran’, a triple masted barque, Reliant on her sail, Was swept ashore by wind and tide, ‘Till held by rock; close by The safer berth of Chesil Cove Where kindly souls lived nigh.

Those people in that Chesil street Who suffered with such storms, Were ever ready when the need Was present in this form.

And with the ‘Ran’ held firmly there Upon that rocky coast, The crew of three were helped ashore By friendly Chesil hosts.

No riches in that vessel’s keep, No silks did she convey, Her cargo was of log - wood,

Most heavy did each weigh.

But in the hold, besides the wood, Steel cables were there seen, Which proved a blessing to the Isle, Like nothing else has been.

As ‘Chippy’ saw quite clearly Their use for his hand - cranes, Replacing crude and cumbrous links Of heavy iron chains.

The cables would more smoothly run Upon the derricks gear, No more the tiresome clankety clank With all the wear and tear.

For hoisting blocks from out the hole Was arduous work indeed, Besides the strain imposed on men, That hardy lusty breed.

So thanks to ‘Chippy’s’ foresight As one who dealt in stone, The ‘Quarryman’s Wreck’ the ‘Ran’ became, And evermore was known.

When chains were used on hand - cranes before the use of wire “falls”, it was said, that by the time a young quarryman reached the age of 21, he would have developed a hernia.

Alec Milverton worked under a handcrane, its jib was a rounded spur from the “Ran”.

A Prayer for Peace The Afghan turmoil springs again To raise its head once more, And desolation covers all A cruel and rabid sore, The children suffer in its wake Exposed to world wide view, Where is the balm to soothe this strife Which reoccurs anew?

Just like an epidemic This plague of war spreads wide,

And people suffer in its path Throughout the countryside.

We see the poor pathetic gaze “Bewildered” by such Hell, Confined within the Battle zone A vicious angry knell.

What ere the Creed, the theme is there Across the wide world’s girth, Oh would that Peace was held up high, “Goodwill to men on Earth”.

Our Ernie A man of many int’rests Ern, retires here today, Well noted on the Draughtsman’s floor for scenes from his display.

The Rocket Mine, one calls to mind, a classical success, Was one of Ernie’s projects here, a hit we must confess.

The Pan and Tilt Rig we have heard, oft boggles with its name!

Another of this maestro’s art, thus adding to his fame.

He is of birth a Yorkshire man, in fact a worthy Tyke, Who in his latter years our Ern, finds solace out at Wyke.

In private life his fond pursuits are in the open air, And to his friends he can reveal his many talents there.

The woods and meadows are his bent, throughout the countryside, To roam around this County which he’s travelled far and wide.

And with him goes his doggie pal, obedient and true, To share the pleasures of the day, a welcome guardian too.

Now Ernie’s quite an expert, about the canine form, And noted in his judgement for those marks above the norm.

So often he is called upon to adjudicate a show, To offer there his expertise and points which he would know.

Though Ernie has a weakness too, which fellows have at length, When spotting lassies well endowed, with magnetising strength.

And with a doggie owner, having Erica’s vast size, Would that be his Achilles heel, awarding her first prize?

Not for her pet’s achievements within the canine field, But for her huge proportions and the allure which they yield.

Now man is prone to prejudice, though ideal is his aim, And so it is with Ernie, who is human just the same.

He’s offered us his friendship, with his skill and craftsman’s view,

But now he feels it’s time to quit and bids us all adieu.

We trust that Ern will think of us, within his leisure days.

While we in turn all wish him well, good luck, good health, always.

Crab Fat The name would puzzle city gents A strange nomenclature, For them ‘twould be an enigma I’m positively sure.

The name sounds most unsavoury, What does it constitute?

Is it of foreign origin Perhaps of ill repute?

Some how it sounds obnoxious May smell abominably, Like something brought in by the cat For everyone to see.

Now is it something medical?

A balm to ease the pain, Or does it grease the moving parts Of some old diesel train?

But ask a Dockyard matey He’d tell you at a pace, It’s common where he’s working And dominates the place.

‘T’was for our Cruiser’s profile, To form a vague disguise, At normal sight for all to see Before our Fleet’s demise.

But if it’s still a mystery, Not fully yet acquainted, If you should see a Battleship Sure with ‘Crab Fat’ it’s painted

A Lodging - A Temporary Accommodation I visited a cottage small, Beside a country lane And there a charming arbour bloomed Somehow ‘twas quite arcane.

It seemed to me an idyll sweet As for a rendezvous, Where couples could in secret tryst As oft times bill and coo.

And there a sheltered lodging place, With seating in grained wood, Where on severe inclement days A welcome haven stood.

Maybe for someone of repute, An honoured dignit’ry, Could there hold court with fitting style In truest majesty.

I looked for some regalia And thought it justified But inside, all I found, alas Was paper, newsprint dyed.

The Mystic Pool What mystic force claimed those lost souls Magnetic in its strength.

Succumbing in that milky pool Possessing them at length?

There in the silent hours of dawn What drew them to their doom?

While others slumbered in their beds Within the morning’s gloom.

What spirit lured them to their fate

As children by the hand, Led by a bogie or a sprite, To dreamy fairy land?

I wonder are those souls at peace, Their troubles left behind.

In that celestial paradise Appeasement did they find.

Reliance

Escape, escape, from troubled care Escape to fair skies anywhere, That long held Fleetwood berth to leave, Where fortune offered no reprieve.

At last the seventeenth day of May, The mooring ropes were cast away, Ere anxious brokers found it fit To nail upon the mast a writ.

Down through the Irish sea they crept, In oily swells and skies that wept, Until the mighty ocean vast Atlantic spread before the mast.

As fierce winds from the South’ard blew, Like “Pegasus”, “Reliance” flew, In wild confusion waves did loom To break and spread in brilliant spume.

Then fate once more began its jest, A force malignant in its quest, Main halyard broke, the log-line wore, The mast light failed, the rigging tore.

Her old capricious engine stopped, The gooseneck sheered, the mizzen dropped, All clocks were stilled, the way was lost, Though they were free, at what a cost!

Afraid to accept proffered aid, The windswept wooden vessel strayed: Across the Channel’s shipping lane “Reliance” tacked and tacked again.

Despite their endless toil and zeal, Between Start Point and Portland Bill, They were entrapped by wind and tide And forced within West Bay to ride.

By dawn tossed near the Devon shore With smallest jib south-east she bore, But once within that deadly place ‘Tis hard to foil its firm embrace.

As twilight fell, the Bill drew near: Their hopes grew that the ship would clear, Helped by the jib and mizzen sail, She’d miss the point on port-side rail.

Uncannily with one vile stroke Upon the mast a grommet broke, The wind lashed tiny jib blew free, To float on that tempestuous sea.

“Reliance” drifted full astern, And as she went they could discern Bright lights agleam above the Beach Where safety lay far out of reach.

Fast flowed the flood tide in its spate, “Reliance” drew towards her fate Passing below the light-house tall, Whose piercing beam shone over all.

Around the Bill the vessel sped, Black fortune beckoning ahead, Broadside she drifted in her plight, Bow on towards the land that night.

There, carved into the limestone joint Beneath the cliffs of Godnor Point, The tireless sea had hewn a cave, Destined to be “Reliance” grave.

And in that dark hole seemed to be, A heart convulsed in agony, As fierce successive breakers pound A death march played beneath the ground.

Quickly the Carley-Float was freed, So precious in their hour of need, Along the Island’s East Cliff side, Towards Cheyne House the raft did ride.

Upon the cliff-top, help was close, A rocket’s trail showed as it rose; Though carried o’er wide terrain The Coastguards search was all in vain.

Just then was seen the Life-boat’s light, At mast-head, shining through the night, Fresh hopes within each watcher surged, As from the gloom the boat emerged.

But now the tide had turned about, The raft took on a different route Towards the Race, and hazards new; A leaping, prancing, witches brew.

Where towering pinnacles combine To clash and burst in shrapnelled brine, Thundering tumultuous in its note, Bombarding those within that float.

Amid the waves, like mountains grown, The pair oft in the seas were thrown, Their craft they struggled then to reach A refuge small, but life to each.

They were a hopeless desperate crew Far out to sea, and lost from view, Though they could glimpse from wave-top high The Island’s form against the sky.

Bereft and grieving for her mate, Ann the defied the call of fate, Provoked by rage, her waning power Produced perhaps her strongest hour.

Her spirit, far to long subdued, Began to rise with hope renewed, The summer sun shone overhead To bring forth warmth where frost had spread.

Land closer loomed throughout the day Encircling shores which formed West Bay, White surf defined the C'hesil's strand, Survival seemed once more at hand.

On billowing seas the float was swept, Towards the beach it slowly crept, Then veered along the West Cliff tall, A cold. unfriendly white stone wall.

It seemed the path she would retrace Towards the ugly dreaded Race, But with a hand-hold for an oar.

Ann forced the raft towards the shore.

There rocks, engulfed by shielding spray, Prescribed for her the only way: Caught by a blinding rush of foam The raft and Ann were driven home.

Explosive all pervading sound.

Filled air and sky and barren ground; No rescuers waited on that shore, Whose sheer cliffs heavenwards did soar.

Was this a game of loaded dice?

Was she still gripped in death's steel vice?

One last determined fight she gave And sought a path her life to save.

She made the cliff-top high, and found Above the grass grown rising ground, An ever welcome friendly sight The stone built houses of higher light.

The Devil's gauntlet they had run, Those victims of Satanic fun, But Ann alone survived to tell Of that forbidding stygian hell.

The Reliance was the name of a ketch owned and sailed by Ann and Frank Davidson. The vessel was wrecked at Godnor Point near Portland Bill at about 2 a.m. 6.6.1949.

The Mirror of Her Mind I look into her eyes to find, The picture which portrays her mind.

A character I hope to see, Those virtues which appeal to me.

This canvass may reveal to all, The values of her inner soul; And also then I may detect, A kindness which would there reflect.

A heart which nurtures tenderness, Revealing smiles of happiness.

When searched in, will those eyes disclose, Contentment and relaxed repose?

I see her form and watch her style, Yet always will those eyes beguile.

But mainly, will that mirror there, Show honesty we both can share?

To my desire will she respond, With answering kiss to form a bond?

Then when her eyes look into mine, Will suddenly our lives entwine?

Stormy West Cliff Give me the cliffs where the wind blows free, When the air tastes of salt from the heaving sea, As dark clouds are hurling aloft through the sky, And the Storm cone's lashed firmly on high.

Give me the cliffs where we love to roam, The wild rocky shore with the huge breaker's foam, The cry of the gulls when the spumes whitened snow Is swept swift to the heights from below.

Give me the cliffs when your coat's tight clasped, When the storm smothers all and you breathless gasp, Then try for a spell from the gale to be free With your face turned away to the lee.

Give me the cliffs the unfettered space, When the blood through your veins swiftly pounds in its race.

Then its off with your care you are strong in your stride, And you know that your soul here will bide.

Sunset over Chesil From a chalet in the evening By the waters of West Bay, Watch the Sun when its in declining, At the closing of the day, Sec the colours ever changing In the summer sky above, All the rainbow's hues reflecting, O'er the Chesil Beach we love.

Now like gem-stones all a'glistening, Bright lit scenes before us fall, Down the golden pathway leading Out towards that orange ball, Fairies dancing on the waters; Would those flickering wavelets seem, Catch them e're the daylight falters, And it all becomes a dream.

When the setting sun goes hiding Down beyond yon Devon hill,

Then serenity comes gliding And the silvery sea is still.

The Solace of West Weares I have no need for company As oft I sit upon a hill, To overlook the restless sea And find my thoughts flow on at will, In pensive mood I dream away, Sweet memories go fleeting by Recalling joys of yesterday, While all around the song birds vie.

On stormy days in hollow, I Escape the rushing blust'ry blast, And watch the combers rolling by To crash upon the shore at last, In calmer times, like mirror-glass The sea reflects bright hues for me, With varied tints the colours pass, Bringing a peaceful harmony.

I need no fellows by my side To whom I must oft lend an ear.

My vision carries far and wide Revealing all that I hold dear.

I have no need for symphony Recorded by a far off choir, For here 1 dwell in sympathy With natures charms that I admire.

Old Tom 's Funeral The news passed along the whole Chesil street That old Tom had now passed away, It was a long time since he on his feet Had scanned o'er the view of West Bay. Now Tom all his life was spent very free In living upon Chesil Beach, His cottage so small stood there in the lee, Screened from the waves' boisterous reach.

His calling was here, his family's food, Maintained by the sea very near, It also supplied his kindling wood For fire which gave warmth and good cheer.

While shooting "long shore" and tending the net He'd stand in the sea as they strayed, So Tom and his clothes were oft very wet, Hence "Screws" through his whole body played.

These "Screws" served him cruel; a terrible test Agony beyond one's belief, But that day old Tom had gone to his rest, Which brought to that poor soul relief.

The bearers they chose for height and for strength From friends on the Beach in their prime, Converging as one, at Tom's house at length, When funeral hour rang its chime.

The sky was bright blue, the day very warm.

As up over Lankridge they tripped The box and old Tom to keep him from harm, Up high on each shoulder well gripped.

The coffin seemed light when starting the slope, But each step, the weight it increased, Till all of the men found they could not cope, Abruptly the upward climb ceased.

Ere long each man felt recovered enough, And hoisting aloft their wood freight, They started again on pathway so rough, Proceeding with their deadly weight.

On reaching at last the hill's very brow, They paused once again for a time, Content with their work and happy to know They'd made it - Supreme in that climb.

A loud cry of "Nope" then sharply rang out, "They're straying close in to the shore", Away to the northwest they were without doubt, Twas mack'rel alive there galore.

The men stood and stared - then down the hill flew, All fervid and fit for the fray; Each one lent a hand m forming the crew When fish were a'stray m the Bay.

And Tom in his box was left for a while, Alone on the hill he must wait, (A chieftain you know when feted in style, Is likewise oft laid out in state).

The Lerret by then was launched in the sea, The Seine net held firm at one end.

And there on the Beach the lads anxiously Awaited the boat make the bend.

Well cast, the net's rope was thrown to the land, Grasped firmly and quickly hauled tight.

Such zest did they show, our eager small band, Who pulled in the catch with their might.

The netting then bulged to near breaking strain, A sling was required as a brace, Men cased in their toil to take breath again, Till stretched round the sling was in place.

Refreshed by the break they took in the slack, A team now all working once more.

With hearty good heaves and straining well back, The catch was hauled safely ashore.

Indeed all the Beach seemed covered with fish, In thousands the mack'rel there lay, Each off'ring a full and succulent dish, All flick'ing in silver array.

Delighted the crew then gathered around, All tossing a stone in the cap.

For that was the way tradition had found, Fair shares were allotted each chap.

Quite sudden to one, a guilty thought came, Old Tom was alone on the hill; As bearers these men must all take the blame, The coffin was waiting there still.

Then full of remorse - they'd been gone an hour, Each started to run on his way, But Lankridge is steep, up one to each four, And they had worked well on that day.

So puffing quite hard they scrambled along.

To pause now and then feeling done, Till once more they came, where Tom lay among The bushes the grass and the stone.

Full spent in their toil on reaching the height.

All sat on the box for a smoke.

But thoughts of their deed told them 'twas not right, 'Cause Tom was a very nice bloke.

Now feeling refreshed they got in their stride Which led their, along in through Tout.

Till reaching the rise, they quickly espied St. George's, with churchyard about.

The parson enquired to know where they'd been, Shamefaced he was told the full tale.

"Such work" said the priest "I never have seen", His tongue lashed at them like a thrail.

The service was short - he'd waited too long Felt fed up right to his eye teeth, Thus Tom was interred with never a song And lowered down, six feet beneath.

The bearers went home to Chesil once more, The news though had long since been told, ‘Twas plainly to see of trouble in store From folk there, the young and the old.

Most humble, heads bowed, the bearers stood dumb, Guilt showing quite clear on each face, The words of reproach had left them all numb, It was Chesil's dark day of disgrace.

According to Joe Stone the word "Nope" was shouted at the sight of mackerel straying close to the shore.

Tommy’s Dilema The time has long since passed away When Tommy lost his mother's care And he remembers well the day When all the fam’ly had to share Their lives within another home, Nurse Bobbins kindly did provide, As oft times she'd a'welcome come To share her humble fireside, Though Missus Bobbins heart was sound (She fed them well to give her dues) But candidly young Tommy found

He'd had to watch his P's and Q's.

Each Saturday young Tom would go For fish and chips, a fine repast, Enough for all to eat, and so He hastened on his legs quite fast, To Mister Smith's just round the bend, From whence the odours wafted high Such pangs of hunger it would send A tempting every passer by.

The shop however was built low 1 was nigh a foot below the street, Where Tommy joined the waiting row Of folk who sought their tasty treat.

At last for Tom his turn came round, The order wrapped to keep it warm (In sheets of newsprint it was wound Bedecked with crime and girlish charm).

Then childlike and in a hurry Young Tommy rushed out through the door, Caught his foot, and in a flurry The meal was scattered on the floor, While unbeknown on pavement stark A dog had passed along that way And left behind his trading mark To torment Tom that fateful day.

Quite stunned and scared he pondered there, Just studying what could be done, Then scooping up the precious fare His fingers gathered every one, In that newsprint for a cover The food Tom promptly homeward bore, Keen eyes there did swiftly hover Around the produce of his chore, Nurse Bobbins then gave each their lot Her husband's share was amply built, But mid the fish and chips he got Was evidence of Tommy's guilt.

All eyes were glued upon that plate, Tom wished the earth would open up, Engulfing him at anyrate.

Because of that ill-mannered pup.

Summer on West Cliff It is pleasant to stroll on the tall West Cliff side, And look to the Roads where the anchored ships ride, While one can discern with a firm steady gaze, Far West Devon hills through the shimmering haze.

We may loll for a while by the steep cliff- tops edge, Observing the gulls as they perch on their ledge, Whilst others are wooing an early Spring Bride, Or calling to us as they circle and elide.

And many's the daw on a high - flighted track.

Reminding his fellows that his name is Jack.

It is pleasant to walk in the long luscious grass, When seeking the orchids well hid as you pass, They're varied in Portland, but favoured of all Is the beautiful Bee - flowered orchid so small.

A kestrel is hov'ring search of a kill, For hungry young fledglings are waiting their fill; And larks in full song soaring ever on high, Send out their sweet trilling to make one's heart sigh.

There skimming the water a dark plummaged shag Is dating his mate on her favourite crag.

Here on a low bush, with its high reaching twig, Is perched a small bird, looking just a bit prig; Of various colours the little stone - chat Distince in its dress and its tiny black hat.

Amongst the rough rocks one sees way down below, An old buck appears with his amorous doe; Though what can be found in the stubble so bare, Provides one would think but very rough fare; Still nature supplies food for one and for all As the whole of creation responds to its call.

The Choirboys of F.J. Bames The Slidcroft site was very bleak, 'Twas there our workshop stood, Its timber frame was old and weak.

With cladding far from good.

The summer sun shone on that shed, For sweat to bead the brow, While winter's frost was chill instead, And painful too. I vow.

When storm force winds oft swept around, The roof would rise and fall, And metal sheeting would resound, To natures war - like call.

As flickering gaslight lit the gloom, Each shortened murky day, There in that elongated room, All toiled with no delay.

Full ninety masons plied their trade, And filled each hankered row, While round the bend the Tramp - ward made A space for over - flow.

A well - known "Bell - Hoss" set a pace, For others there to match, But seldom could they win the race, He ruled upon that patch.

He often had a rise in pay, Above his fellow men, And therefore had to show the way; It was an honour, then.

And each indentured boy would try To emulate that man, His tools he carefully would ply, A keen and ardent fan.

Great pains would each apprentice take To fashion blocks of stone.

Each member true, that lad would make, As men before had done.

Those forebears passed along their skill To kinsfolk of their day.

Down through the years that role to fill In rev'rence to their clay.

Quite peaceful were those early years, None thought to dread the sack.

With all the worries and the fears, When men their tools must pack.

In carefree moods, lads learned their craft, With tools of tempered steel.

To cut the ideal measured draft, Yet slow at first I feel.

The blacksmith was important then, When tempering each tool, Which needed to be flawless when, Laid in the dust to cool.

The punches, chisels, clawtools wide, Perfected for each chore, Which we in turn would then divide, With practice of our lore.

Our mallets round, of Beech were grown, The beats of those wood bands Were polished to a lovely tone By strong caressing hands.

Those mallets weighed seven pounds for norm, And used with stiffened wrist; The hammer true in balanced form Held in a calloused fist.

The masons aided through the day With age old tunes we sang, In measured time men worked away; While sounds of metal rang.

The ancient hymns of our desire, Or songs of music hall, Sung boldly by that male - voice choir, United one and all.

And from the Station Yard they'd ask Enquiries of our song, Aware were they that for our task It helped the work along.

With just a tinkle on the phone, Held tightly to the ear, The gusto of our choir was known, An answer loud and clear.

But that was oh so long ago, When craftsmen ruled supreme, As from their hands the lines would flow, A lone designers dream.

Alas machines now hold the sway, Cruel strident noises ring, And as their screaming rules the day, No more do masons sing.

No more do numerous men create Mouldings ornate and free, They now are of a bygone date, As you and I shall be.

"Bell Hoss" i.e. Bell Horse the leader

A daub with a Paint Brush No talent had young Jim for art, In water - colours form, Unconsciously he played a part.

In raising quite a storm.

While in his classroom seat he plied A brush, as best he could.

His efforts in no way allied Themselves, as artist's should.

But when old Nemo bawled him out, And really lost his head, To call Jim just a clumsy lout, For him to blush deep red.

As "Nemo" very rudely said, "By using just his tail One of your father's bovine kind Would manage just as well".

For others in the class to smile, Much to the boy's dismay, To suffer thus for quite a while In fact, throughout the day When to his father Jim complained, About the day's event, The lad to "Enos" then explained,

His feelings of dissent.

To "Enos" pride this was a blow, He was the family's head, He'd certainly let "Nemo" know, Who earned the household bread They both lived in the neighbourhood, Close to the old windmill, Where "Enos" raised his little brood, And "Eschol Lodge" stands, still.

Now "Enos", very big and strong His comer he could take, And any crowd he stood among, An impact he would make.

When "Enos" knocked on "Ncmo's" door, Most fearless in his mood, To front "Nemo" with words in store, He'd know-just where he stood.

"Now look here "Edwards" "Enos" said, "Don't try those tricks again Fell sarcasm on my son you laid, So kindly just refrain.

Or I will bring along a cow, To stand in your classroom.

And you can surely take my vow, You'll really need a broom.

I'll see that she will there provide, A paint beyond your choice, Some pigment more than you can hide, To choke your caustic voice.

Enough to entertain your school, Though you may well protest.

You'll then find out who is the fool, And who will turn out best.

How I lost my inhibitions My daughter said some time ago, 'There's something . dad , you ought to know, When you are in a ward confined, Subdued, and helpless you will find

You'll quickly lose, quite certainly, Your natural pride and prudery !

1 found her right when came the day That nurses over me held sway, No one can ever then resist A lassie's hand upon the wrist, To feel a pulse beneath the skin, And search reactions there within.

They know full well which way is best, When going through a routine test.

Besides the bottles strung up high.

With tubes attached to ones left thigh, When later on, decides someone, The purpose of those tubes is done.

A nurse arrives with all the gear The victim, stripped and tense with fear; Would that withdrawal bring forth pain ?

Relief; My fears were all in vain.

Her gentle hands caused no distress, But strange to me, 1 must confess, She thinks my vital part looks odd; 1 tell her "I'm a normal bod, And what you sec is just hygiene Well proven through the years has been".

(My origin is not obscure Of that I'm positively sure, And with my fair skin as my gauge 1 doubt not of my heritage:) Once as I slowly made my way Along the ward, a voice did say, "Dreams he of columned cloisters bare, Where sublime thoughts which none can share Yield visions of the one on high ?

Who is that monk who passes by", ?

Such ready wit and repartee Brought home a patent fact to me, I smiled and realised twas true A straightened back was over - due.

Instead of fearing with each ache, Somewhere inside a stitch might break.

Now when the therapist we met, To some she seemed a martinet.

Who tested if our lungs were clear.

(Though to me she was not severe.)

But on the "Colonel's" back she'd beat A military roll complete, In spite of the prolonged complaint By that unwell recipient; But with his ego's blatant form He brought upon himself a storm Of ridicule, his vanity Reflected in our cruelty.

Eventually a message brought The long awaited news we sought, Which two attendants came to prove; My pal and I would have a move, 1 climbed the mobile chair quite fast, And I was on my way at last.

To leave my friend to make his way Along the passages that day.

Yet due respects should have been paid To him without the slightest aid; He was a decade more in age Than my three score and ten year's stage.

While he went home to kith and kin, I still must stay a while within The limits of a Naval Ward Which, high above the Verne did guard.

The pretty nurses on this Isle Each gave their favours with a smile As many times a bath they drew And served me with attentions new.

I don't know what they thought to see In all my ag-ed nudity.

Perhaps 'twas found I am unique And worth a glance at my physique.

But I was on my native soil, And nought could now my spirit spoil.

The air around was blowing free,

While I could view the distant sea.

Those nurses, dressed in brown and blue, An angel each, what - ere their hue.

To those who kindly tended me, My gratitude will always be.

Reflections on the statement by Sir Robert Mark, former Head of the Metropolitan police on October 1978 :- "In London law and order has now broken down!"

That Sinister Date February 13 th , 1979 Again the wind increased and strained As many times before, The waves forever upward craned Towards the east bound shore.

Thus West Bay seemed a sheltered zone, No white caps crowned the seas, The swell with gentle rolling tone Conveyed a scene at ease.

But nigh the beach the breakers soared As to the land they dashed, And like an irate monster roared When on the shore they crashed.

Then stealthily the flood - tide grew, A tractive moon waxed round.

The combers higher yet did spew With each alarming pound.

Til that ill - omened thirteenth date, One grey and wint'ry day.

When Chiswell must submit to fate, And its infernal play.

As dawn drew near, the sea's o'er flowed, Incessantly they ran, And in their path the great ridge bowed Within those breakers span.

The deluge, unretarded, rushed Through buildings in the Square, From out the lower windows gushed,

With impetus to spare; And many cars, of modem style, Parked safely for the night, Were caught within that frenzied boil, And left a mangled sight.

Folk in the houses facing west Watched weaves rush to their doors, Those terraced homes then to infest As seas rose o'er the floors.

Near Brandy Row, within its grip Two persons almost drowned.

The annex to the "Little Ship" Was flattened to the ground.

A terrifying sight indeed, For families roused that mom ‘Til helpers, conscious of their need, Found homes for those forlorn.

Once more those folk had to withstand Appalling marine moods, Enough to daunt the stoutest band, Those frequent Chiswell floods.

But folk are loathe to bid adieu To hearths they've known for years.

Though nature's scourge occurs anew, Creating doubts and fears.

But hope eternally will surge, Where ever people roam, Enamoured by that native urge, For Chiswell is their home.

A Sculptor 's tribute to Christ At Easton Chapel A sculptor pictured in his mind Lord Jesus, Saviour of mankind, Amongst disciples as he stood, Expressing to that brotherhood A gospel they might understand.

In Israel's fair and chosen land.

He saw how Christ the Saviour came Administ’ing to sick and lame, And laid on hands to those who sought Those miracles which Jesus wrought.

Then in the garden, rapt in prayer, He viewed Christ paying penance there, For all of mankind's guilt and shame, Accepting on himself the blame.

The sacrificial road Christ chose, Led as his life drew to a close, Up to the cross, there to atone, With faith still strong, "Thy will be done".

Then did the sculptor bring to light, Carved in the Portland oolite, Below the pulpit raised in stone, A token to God's Holy Son. "Disciples gathered with our Lord, To sup and hearken to his word".

And o'er the Chapel's portal fair Was sculpt a scene with love and care.

Conveying by an artist's skill, Jesus ascending from a hill.

Made manifest for all to see.

A tribute to Our Deity.

The carvings at Hasten Chapel were by Mr. Shepherd a travelling sculptor. In 1913 he Carved "The Last Supper".

The Honorarium The elders of the Island met Within the Chambers Room, To solemnly each item vet, And nothing dare presume.

Each motion passed in earnest mien, Becoming of those men, Lest in the local press was seen Some smart reporter's gen.

When General Business had been served, The Chairman question all;

'Should other matters be observed Whilst meeting in that hall'?

Then said a member as he rose: "Old John has deemed it meet, His resignation to propose, For youth to fill his seat.

Some recognition should be paid For his long - standing term, He has indeed a record made Which minutes will confirm.

An honorarium reward, Would seemingly be fit.

For such a gift we could afford While we this day do sit."

Upstood at once one worthy sage, Not far from his demise.

So plainly there exposed his age To take a fossils prize.

And said "Old John he likes to sing And act the giddy goat But what's the use of such a thing He cannot play a note.

An honorarium's not for him, To stand against the wall Just like an ornamental whim, 'Twould be no use at all"

The Garden Loo I well remember in my youth, the night - cart passing by, To render service to those homes which at that time were dry, Save for the stone - built catchments, where people used to store Rainwater from the roof above, in cisterns 'neath the floor.

The horse drawn wagon rumbled on its passage through the dark.

To where the early drainage scheme, had failed to make its mark.

The little house was way beyond the cottage backyard door, This meant a very distant trek in weathers good and poor.

When winters icy east'ly winds were cutting as a knife, To daunt the bravest in that walk, compelled by calls of life.

Yet some were very cosy, rather homely in their way,

And with the reading matter there, encouraged quite a stay.

Some used it as a sanctum for an after dinner kip, And not a bad idea at that to dodge the spouses lip.

Some were like a focal point, to air a different view, For in such useful havens, there were double - sitters too.

Providing thus companionship, a kind of rendezvous, A clandestine arrangement in that very friendly loo.

The Witches' Stones Have you seen the witches stones upon the gable end ?

Of my old stone built house you see, its just around the bend.

Beyond the Inn where years ago the Albion made its sale, With stout and beer served o'er the bar, or maybe jugs of ale.

In those far days so many folk feared witches in the dark.

Such evil creatures, they oft' thought would stay to leave their mark.

I have no wish to see a hag come flying on a broom In tattered cloak and tall coned hat, to wing into my room, To cast a vicious ugly spell on all who live in here, F'\\ oiild haunt me ever and a day should that occur I fear.

I'll have to bar the windows and keep them oh so tight, To guard against such hell - cats approaching in the night.

I've often heard the old folks tell, how on a sill she'd sit, To rest a while, and look around 'ere on her way she'd flit, And if a w'-indow was ajar, enticing her within.

Giving some time to settle there and wicked spells to spin.

But you will find I have a Means, my household to defend, By having two projecting stones built on that gable end.

They are for a purpose, to attract such spooky crones, Who in their flight, perchance would pause, on those protruding stones.

While I've blocked any passage from curses she might make, Or such appalling liberties, the old hag might then take.

I trust she would not find there an access in the gloom, And on her broomstick through the dark. away she then would zoom.

So prayers at night 1 offer, when snuggled up in bed, That in defenceless moments, my guardians shield is spread.

Did Someone Care At 22 Reforne?

There in a courtyard stood alone A house well built, with lichened stone, Where in, a shrouded sense of gloom, A brother languished in his room.

The ailment, "fatal in that day".

It seemed he would soon pass away, And as a boy outside there played His eyes up to the window strayed.

There to behold a lady fair Who smiled, her looks so full of care.

But, strange it was no one they knew Had visited the whole day through.

Was it his guardian angel come, A herald to his heavenly home, And with her presence by his side To help him cross the Great Divide ?

That someone grieves, what may befall, It was a solace to them all, And still t'would seem a presence near Brings comfort to those dwelling here.

It was the Hitchcocks' family who lived at 22 Reforne years ago and the eldest son Rupert died of Tuberculosis, and Dudley a younger brother, who played in the courtyard.

In the 1920's Tuberculosis was widespread and antibiotics were still a number of years away. Those who were wealthy enough were sent to Switzerland and sanatoriums there for a cure in the pure air of that country.

The Wooden Bridge 'Tis more than seventy years ago My memory takes me back.

To when that rough built wooden bridge Once spanned the railway track.

Yet still the traces can be seen Of stone built piers each side, To bear the weight of Jub'lee Skips

Which o'er the bridge did ride, It served the quarry which was nigh To Snappy Dick's long plot, But now a bungalow exists On that aborted spot, The bridge it was a playing ground For youngsters, Dick and Harry, When riding on those iron trucks That narrow gauge did carry.

It was there that we'd have spall - fights, With lads from Easton Square, Yet I never can remember Boys being wounded there.

As they from on the Palace side Their ammunition threw, While we in turn would answer back With shots fired by our crew.

The district now is covered, A site which fam'lies share, While in the railway - cutting planned, A walk with blossoms fair.

It spanned the Railway from the quarries behind Bloomfield Terrace, to carry rubble from the New Quarry as we called it on the other side, now Park Estate.

Robert Wobbler Anthony (Deceased) So oft beside the garden gate he watched the Chis'ell scene To note through eighty - five years span the changes there had been, Those many well known folk he knew, two uncles of great fame, Who lived within his mothers home and bore her maiden name, Beside the fireside they would sit, with clay pipes filled with "Twist" Or trudged along the pebbled beach in early morning mist.

To search for flotsam on the shore and any worth while goods, When washed there in the darkest hours by natures whimsy moods.

Now Wobbler in his childhood days, when he was barely four, Watched those two old time sailing - ships when driven on the shore.

First was the "Emma Maria" from a cruel rough West Bay,

Joined on the Chesil's grasping strand by "Patria" next day.

And when the armistice was signed. Bob mingled with the throng Who danced around the village Pump, those folk he dwelt among, When Copperthwaite on ivory keys maintained a lively air, Encouraging the jollity amongst the neighbours there, How many times did Wobbler see his village flooded deep, With horses taken from their stalls, a very watery keep' ?

Down through the years he also saw the fishing crews decline, Instead of Lerrets with their nets, now feathers rod and line.

The local life has suffered too, for traders known of old No longer cater there, for all, with many goods untold.

The population has dispersed to live their lives elsewhere And with them went the friendliness, the fellowship and care.

Still by the gate I see his shade, clad in knit - jacket blue.

With traffic rushing by the door to mar his steady view, Now Wobbler's joined the lengthy line of troupers in the cast Who featured in the neighbourhood of Chis'ell through the past.

Habitual Drunk Notice 30th January 1907 John William Stone the notice read, Habitual Drunk it also said.

But few would know him by that name!

It was "Jack Nap" that gave him fame, Or was that word somewhat abused, And infamous more rightly used, Of stature Jack was rather small, According to this Bill of Law, Describing him of medium size, Grey was his hair in colour - wise, And broken on the bridge his nose, A bruiser's look one might suppose, There on the notice words then came, A broken kneecap left him lame.

But this would not his labours spoil, As Jack was never known to toil.

And ev'ry publican was told Quite plainly by the letters bold.

No liquor should be served to Jack

The licence might be taken back.

Such confiscation could be made, With - holding permit for the trade.

But for old Jack it would be hell, The wording also there did tell, For three long years he must abstain A sober man he must remain.

Should he again the law offend A Fine of substance would append.

But for a toper such as he, A life of misery 'twould be.

The penalty he'd sooner pay Than live in agony each day, And though the Court that mandate made, Its certain Jack was not afraid.

But to the Law he thumbed his nose To carry on the life he chose, With dog and goose to wend his way, Footloose from pub to pub each day.

Under the heading portrait of an Habitual Drunkard, a notice was served to Publicans of this area, by the Court at Weymouth County Petty Sessions, forbidding them to serve liquor to Jack Nap, who lived at 46 Reforne.

Culverwell I've seen the waters running slow, And also in full spate, As from the Culverwell they flow, Swayed by the seasons state.

I've seen it over Godnor fly, Far from the cliff - top high, To fall into the waters there, The strong tide running by.

I've seen it over Godnor drape, An ice formed curtain show, To veil the local stone beneath When bitter winds doth blow.

And when the weather - glass drops low,

Above that rugged cliff, When sprayed by moisture blowing free.

The grass stands ram - rod stiff.

But what a boon for ancient tribes Who used the midden near, To have the Culverwell at hand, With sparkling waters clear.

Which from the Kim'ridge clay - bed springs, Through strata's layers deep, To surface here for natures needs, A welcome wat'ry keep.

So offer up your thanks on high, As others did to Baal, For blessings given to this Isle, The gift of Culverwell.

Skylark (C.A. Durston) We knew him for his impish fun When life for us had just begun, Then cares were few and far between, The world about a field of green, And with the Sunday Service done, It was the want of ev'ry one To promenade as girls and boys In Fortuneswell, and there make eyes At those who we would wish to charm, To flirt with them with glances warm, And picture "Sky" in morning suit With Bowler Hat and cane, quite cute.

To stroll light hearted come what may A little dandy in his way.

And on his fiddle learned to play The fav'rite tunes of yesterday.

To partner folk who music made For others on the dance parade, In later years in words of rhyme He wrote the history of our time.

And for his grasp of ancient lore So often asked for an encore, As times upon the stage he'd pose When reading poetry and prose.

Such lavish literary fare None better for that purpose there, As Skylark he was ever known, A Southwell lad one of our own.

Robert Butler the Gospeller Evangelist's in days of yore Bore witness to us here, And threatened those who dare defy Their message loud and clear.

But then we had one of our own, Who preached the gospels true, Expounding all the passages, To those who came in view.

In Fasten Square some time ago, When peace was held supreme, He witnessed to the Islanders, The Holy Bible's theme.

Here was a man who made a claim To worship as he chose, And begged that others sec the light, As in the Square he'd pose.

With book in hand to preach the word, It's gospels to proclaim And put one's trust in JESUS CHRIST, Who healed the sick and lame, In weather's fair and foul he stood, Beside the Gardens gate, Beseeching folk to mend their ways Before it was to late, As ROBERT BUTLER he did serve, With probity in mind, His MASTER with the witnessing For love of all Mankind.

The Tout Cave Man There in the darkness of the cave As though awakened from its grave A figure crouched, seeming to give Such mystic thoughts that it might live, A feeling which did there exude Of someone from a world most crude, Could such a creature hibernate, Emerging at a later date ?

Would it be far beyond its ken To take a step outside its den, And face these times of nuclear age With ideas new on every page ?

And by the complex happ'nings here Bringing perplexities and fear To meet this modem day affair !

Should it retreat within its lair ?

And journey back to ancient times With simpler ways and warmer climes ?

During the summer of 1988 there was a stone figure to be seen in one of the Tout Quarry caves.

The Caveman Mystery The caveman somehow disappeared Within the depths of night, Did it develop massive wings And suddenly take flight ?

Has it returned to former days Communion with the past, With fellow spirits that it knew To feel at home at last ?

Or did some roguery take place Within the paths of Tout, To bodily remove that form And take it walk - about ?

Is it now placed on alter tall Within an ornate shrine, Where followers pay homages

To figure there divine ?

Does it possess some awesome power To grant devotees there The wishes that those worshipping Would offer up in prayer ?

Perhaps in retrospect someone May feel he should atone, For taking from the cavern rude That Figure carved in stone.

The December issue of the Free Portland News revealed that the sculptor Cornelius had named the figure of a girl "Mafus" and had given a couple who had approved of the work permission for them to have it but before they could remove it, someone had stolen the work. either the evening or the day after they had taken a photograph of the model.

The Easton Phantom Oh phantom cry shame, that you should dare presume, To enter a beautiful young lady's room, Where she in that boudoir, to dreamland did stray, Secure in her thoughts, as the night passed away, Now wasn't it naughty to wake one so charming, To frighten her in a manner alarming.

How dare you impose with your milil'ry look.

Have you no shame for the leave that you took.

And to come back again, to endorse your first glance, Did you hope to command a hypnotic trance, And there to enthral a young lass m her sleep, While you in the dark. would around her bed creep ?

Why don't you return to where vague spirits dwell, And stay ever more in your phantom - like cell.

The Easton Methodist Chapel Opened September 12 th 1907 Believers with their faith so strong, In days of long ago.

When Wesley's message passed along,

Of Christ they wished to know.

And thought a chapel grand to build, To glorify the Lord, And in that hall, the faithful guild Could hearken to his word.

In time the Chapel's plans were made, The site was chosen too, Quite deeply were the footings laid, And thus the building grew.

It was an architectural dream, Built true in Easton Square, An elevation drawn supreme, Rose manifestly there.

The portal made an entrance fair, With pillars left and right, A monumental prop to bear The project's classic height.

And elegantly up on high Were windows choice, let in, To clearly then identify The furnishings within.

The gallery, the pews of wood, Where good folk knelt to pray, The pulpit, where each preacher stood On ev'ry Sabbath day.

While overhead a balanced pair Of towers crowned the site, Expressing for believers there The Holy Father's might.

For up on high they stand supreme, Surveying all below.

Fulfilment to the faithful's dream.

Where men, in grace may grow.

Muchelney Abbey The mist swept close along the ground Half hiding stones that lay around To mark the ancient Abbey's walls, The boundary of those cold halls.

Did I espy a shadowy shape, In cow led hood and heavy cape, With head bowed low as if in prayer ?

1 pictured someone walking there.

And as the mist swept over all, I felt the urge that wraith to call, But as I strained my eyes to see, That pious form eluded me.

And I was left alone once more, To plod my pathway as before, And ponder on what life would be In olden days at Mucheley.

The Kestrel No gauntlet's wrist on which to wait.

Or cage to cramp his restless trait.

No one to call him from the sky,.

Or hood to blind his watchful eye, No need his mandible to rest, Upon that spotted feathered breast, Through boredom in a confined space.

Instead of winging free apace.

Untamed, he rides the breeze to rove.

Or hovers warily above.

The laws of nature to obey, When seeking far below a prey.

Then swooping with impressive rush.

To seize his victim in the brush.

(A little bird. perhaps a shrew.

Incautious as the danger grew).

Then off towards the cliff to bear A morsel for his fledglings there.

Instinctive in its parents creed To generate a lusty breed.

Once more on wing, away, alone, Patrolling his own hunting zone, An exhibition to enhance Avian form of elegance.

On the Wind Winging 1 often aspire to fly far away, To the heavens high dome of my dreams, Drifting and soaring throughout the whole day, While caressed by the sun's friendly beams.

I there would be home on strong feathered wings, Where my whimsical humour could stray, Away from the world where ribaldry clings, And aggression in startling array.

On the wind winging up high would 1 climb, With the soft thermal breezes and free.

Triumphant at heart with rapture sublime, I'd find peace there and serenity.

Nothing to bind me to earth's irksome chain, Nor intrude in a realm 1 revere, Relishing freedom there I would remain, Undisturbed in my own astral sphere.

Forebodings at Dawn As daylight lit the early gloom, St. A I ban's seemed quite nigh, While further yet the Wight did loom Beneath a pastel sky.

There was a hush, no breezes blew, The sea was calm and still; But plain the signs were here I knew, A presage to fulfil.

Cloud messengers next graced the stage, Like puff - balls spaced afar, They heralded as would a page, A more impressive star.

For ominous, the rain clouds grew, The noon - day sun was blurred, And winds flexed energies anew.

As o'er the sea they spurred.

And in then - wake the deep troughs formed.

White horses rode each peak.

As through the twilight each steed stormed, Wild looked the sea and bleak.

The heavy combers gathered strength, Forming a frothy hem, As to the land they drew at length, Upon the shore to stem.

Yet as the mid - night hour passed by, A balm somehow was born The waning moon lit up the sky.

To welcome in the mom.

First Light At dawns first light we left the door The early morning to explore, The air was chill as we stepped out Upon our early walk about, And found the fields all clad m white A frost had spread a carpet bright.

It truly was a wond'rous sight We saw there in the early light, A dog fox barked we heard his mate Respond then by a distant gate, A barn owl, silent, gliding by To pounce upon a vole quite nigh, Ere flying to its nest to feast Upon that luckless little beast, And as the night drew its close The sun above the skyline rose, To herald in another day.

As homeward then we made our way.

Tyneham The ancient church remains today, To overlook the scene From whence the good folk walked to pray, And village life had been.

The Manor Farm nearby employed, Beneath surrounding hills, And through the winter months enjoyed A screen when east winds chills.

Although the church is still complete,

Held reverently in style, Those homesteads now are obsolete, While martial deeds defile, Those hearths which warmth to families gave Are ruins grey and old, And like the churchyard's unpaired graves Both desolate and cold.

Destiny What future is there way beyond the blue '?

What secrets lie within the distant haze ?

Will all the oracle suggests come true ?

Or destiny remain a puzzling maze ?

When wand'ring through the labyrinths of life Where nothing has a purpose anymore, When one is ill beset with toil and strife, Which multiply to form a tragic store.

The thought occurs - is mine an actors role ?

One pro - ordained though now a mystery, In retrospect will I know in my soul That life is just a part of history.

If only I could glimpse a guiding light, Uplifting my ideals then come what may Regardless of all bruising in the fight T'would lead me fearless through the darkest day.

St. Mark's gospel. Chapter XV verse. 34 - And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice saying :- My God My God why hast though forsaken me.

Appeal to the Sage Oh worthy one, what can you see Within this world of mystery, Can you behold a chink of light To guide us through the dark of night ?

When reaching with one's arms flung wide For substance which affords a guide, We hear and read the creeds of men, prom any astute writer's pen

Which lacks conviction when on test To see the world in manifest, With depredation, toil and strife, Heedless of children's wasted life, Their bloated abdomens which show The need of sustenance to grow, And skin drawn tight on bony frame, Who does one name to take the blame: For all the negligence and pain.

Must it an enigma remain ?

Where in life's Jig - saw does it fit.

That someone should such works permit ?

Based on the discourse by Skylark with the Rev. D.V. Gerrish on the afternoon of Thursday 30th. November 1989. Why if there is a God. he should allow the suffering of little children who are starving in places such as Ethiopia.

That Bowling Bounder To bowl a bouncer down the green To ev'ryone's amazement, It should be penalised at once That is an understatement.

Upon Victoria's Bowling Green I've seen such crime enacted, Our primo Skipper went berserk He was exasperated.

It was indeed a sacrilege, The idea is obscene, Such treasured green is idolised Like nothing else has been.

And surely something must be done To curb such faults as this, Perhaps inflict a heavy fine It would not come amiss.

Then others who partake the game Would not be an offender, To desecrate such hallowed turf It's quite a misdemeanour.

Now should you spot a bounder Engaged in such intent, Exacerbate those adjectives When making your comment.

Thoughts at Christmas I hear the bells at Christmas time The old familiar carols chime, They ring out melodies so sweet That peace on earth to men repeat.

And with those wishes of good-will May evermore your mem’ries fill, With treasured thoughts of those you know.

And friendships formed so long ago.