The Swan

 

Unlike most of our population

I’ve never been fond of the swan

It’s aggressive and mean

And frequently seen

Pecking mallards and coots on the pond

 

It’s nasty, it’s spiteful

Even birds with a rightful

Place on the lake hate its presence

If it took my advice it would vow to be nice

Like the grebes and the wrens and the pheasants

 

It’s a haughty old bird

Its shape quite absurd, not aero-dynamically favoured

Its neck is too long

It has no sweet song

And its take-off is noisy and laboured

 

Don’t ask me then to be kind to the pens

Or to show any love for the cobs

I simply can’t stand ‘em

They cruise ‘round in tandem

The ultimate avian snobs

 

 

 

Ker-blooosh!!!

                                                        

Carping on a windy night                                                 

The moon, full circle, shining bright

Ragged pillows scudding ’cross

The inky-blue of Heaven

 

Not for me the gadgetry

That robs me of the need to see

Crinkled silver cooking-foil

Is what I have grown up with

 

Yes, it’s true, it’s inefficient

But for forty years it’s been sufficient

I really don’t mind if I blank

I simply like the method.

 

On such a night there’ll be no clooping

Wild white horses, poplars stooping

Collar up, I revel in

The best that Nature gives us

 

Opposite, long shadows lay

Across the water where by day

The only souls to venture there

Are those of swan and mallard

 

But lo! There comes the sound of panic!

The far bank rocked by gusts-titanic!

A brolly slips the bonds of Earth

And spirals for the stars

 

Shouts of anguish, thumping boots

Frantic angler, startled coots

The errant ‘Steadfast’ plummets down

And sails forever eastward

 

Rescue-rod in casting hand

He runs pell-mell for that spit of land

That long and narrow gravel-bar

From where he’ll cast his life-line

 

Sensing imminent success

Faster, faster does he press

Headlong up that narrow bar……

….That dark, deceptive shadow!

 

 

 

Samantha


‘Oh, come on, take me fishing!’

Samantha said to me

But as much as I’d have liked to

Her way distracted me…

Now at that time each waking hour

Was spent at Willow lake

In search of bronze leviathans

A girl I couldn’t take!

No doubt she’d start complaining

About the wind and cold

About the smelly maggots

She knew she’d have to hold…

 

And so throughout the summer

Her demands were kept at bay

I’d managed thirteen doubles

Without women in the way!

But come the snows of winter –

(A time not of my liking)

I’d often hear her whimper

‘Oh, come on, take me piking!’

Well, what’s a lad supposed to do?

With her I couldn’t reason

So I promised Sammy faithfully

I’d take her out next season…

 

By the sixteenth day of a blazing June

The girl had somehow changed

Curiously fuller and differently arranged

I must confess I liked it and decided to combine

Those deep primeval yearnings

With that sacred sport of mine….

I bought myself a Brolly-Camp

(‘Samantha – it gets jolly damp’)

then invited my intended to a session

She readily agreed

indeed, she took the lead

Well at least she seemed to give off that impression…

 

That evening was perfection

She studied the erection –

It’s rigid, ribbed, distinctly bulbous form

She marvelled at its size

With disbelieving eyes

What fun she’d have before the break of dawn!

Laughing like a jackal

She took hold of my tackle

And waved its length to test its steely action

Declaring it a ‘stiffy’

She crawled into the bivvy

For a night of piscatorial satisfaction!