When the wild things rule
The Sun goes down in the west and the dark creeps over the land.
Ownership of the farm passes to the wild things.
They ignore what it says on the deeds or the land registry computers.
But then they have more rights than I, the newcomer.
Hundreds of generations have earned them their tenancy.
In the daylight the passage of their nocturnal traffic is everywhere.
Footprints of Roe dear, tracks of fox and badger.
Stoat, weasel, mouse and vole I am sure are there but I don't have the knowledge to read their signs
A patch of feathers, evidence of the nights struggle for life.
And in the ditch under a hedge it looks like Brock is moving in.
A neat burrow and the stain of gravel excavated from below.
They are all welcome here and I rejoice in their presence.
They not the financial bottom line are the measure of success on this farm.
Sailing instructions
Off the coast of me lies an island.
Its aspect is wonderful and appealing.
Few are trusted with its secrets.
The sailing conditions in these parts can be torturous.
Many of the approaches are rocky and landing is perilous.
On the far side lies a beautiful beach.
In the right sea conditions a landing is possible.
The trials of the journey are worthwhile.
The interior is a very interesting place with many treasures.
The terrain however makes exploration difficult.
If the weather deteriorates a hasty retreat to the boats is necessary.
Fen Edge Spring
Tears in my eyes but not of sorrow.
Just the wind in my face as I walk the farm.
Indeed if they were of emotion they would be of joy.
My melancholy is lifting with the lark song above.
The hawthorn is coming into bud.
The partridge are pairing.
Spring is coming to the fen edge.
Mr Mole
Busy busy mole working all the time
In the underground in his little mine
Energetic fellow pushing up his mounds
Scourge or gardeners and of playing grounds
Mid Upper Man
A thousand shadows drifting though the sky
Each carrying seven whose fates are nigh
Seven dreaming of sweethearts they left behind
It's the Ruhr tonight and the krauts won't be kind
The fireworks ahead are drawing them on
So pretty they look from so far away
But death is amongst them brutal and cold
Stealing men’s lives they will not grow old
There are fewer now and silk's drifting down
The bomb doors are open as onward they fly
Into the maelstrom as straight as a die
Then Death is released to rain down below
Their job is complete now so home they may go
Mid Upper man sees the shape appear like a ghost
Mid Upper man turns to stop its approach
Mid upper man sees twinkles on the ghost’s wings
Mid upper man knows death's scything in
Mid upper man feels the canons blow
Mid upper man the smell of cordite fills his nose
Mid upper man no fear does he feel
Mid upper man becomes one with his steel
Mid upper man unleashes his storm
Mid upper man waits to be re-born
Mid upper man sees the ghost turn away
Mid upper man may see another day
The parallel lights twinkle ahead
The gear goes down then the screech of the tyres
As they rumble along thoughts turn to food
There will be bacon and eggs now
God isn't life is good!
Mid upper man again sees the spectre approach
Mid upper man again no fear does he feel
Mid upper man knows he will soon be at rest
Mid upper man home from his mission at last
Dedicated to my Uncle Harry who was mid-upper gunner on the Lancaster bomber during the war and did 15 missions over Germany.
Maybe cheating death in early life was why he lived life to the full and touched so many others.
The weather gods
The weather gods are fickle beings who trick the Met Office with “fake news”.
The Met Office think we don’t know they have a hotline to the weather gods,
but we do and know them to be fools for believing what the gods say.
The Met Office have massive super computers but don’t they realise that the weather gods live in them.
They feed off the bits and bytes and the more powerful the central processor the more they like it.
They set it all up with a nice high pressure system moving in from the south west,
nice warm air from the Azores then just when we have plans made they give the isobars a good kick in the arse to spoil it all.
They delight in seeing us blown around soaking wet and frozen.
According to chaos theory if a butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil it can change our weather,
just think what can happen if I decide to go out the front door instead of the back.
The gods are watching and they are pissing on the circuit boards in the Met Office super computer,
just for a laugh. I know this because if I had their power that’s what I’d do:-)
And because the Met Office super computer is connected to the internet the weather gods have access to our phones, computers and tablets.
They know our hopes, our fears, our aspirations and our plans.
They know that I just got the paperwork from the DVLA and that my classic car is now road legal and it doesn’t take a genius let alone a god to know that I want to take it out for a spin.
So Met Office forget your machines, abandon your screens and LOOK OUT THE F*****G WINDOW!
You got it wrong again!
Its drivel but drivel is better than drizzle
In search of the perfect bale
Gerchunk gerchunk Gerchunk gerchunk gerchunk
Nuts and bolts and gears and string
It’s a truly amazing thing
Gerchunk gerchunk Gerchunk gerchunk gerchunk
Cams and bales and belts and rams
The trouble is is sometimes jams
Gerchunk gerchunk Gerchunk gerchunk gerchunk
Tines and tractor and knots and hay
Up and down the rows all the day.
Gerchunk gerchunk Gerchunk gerchunk gerchunk
Lift
Lift is created by the onward rush of life over the curved wing of the soul.
Drag is inevitable due to inefficiency's in the design of the human structure.
