The Call - John Buchanan

Ragged granite sentinels tear at the hearts of the huge Atlantic rollers driven in by the gale.
White horses charge towards the shore, spume flying from their manes.
A thunderous roar heralds their approach, and then, the deep muffled thump as the foaming mass explodes against the stone wall.
Spray is hurled into the churning grey sky before falling back in a sheet which covers the road and the wall, again and again.

The mournful sound of the fog horn breaks through the shroud of fog which lingers on the morn.
Water chuckles gleefully in the douit which runs beside the narrow lane as it flows to the sea.
The Fog burns off, Primrose, Bluebell and Buttercup bejewel the hedgerow and ducklings paddle in the shallow water.
Birdsong fills the quiet valley as migrant and resident alike celebrate new life in harmony.

Narrow paths thread through the undergrowth, clinging to the rugged cliffs.
Campion, Thrift and Gorse abound, their colours, a riot amongst the myriad of greens which clothe the steep slopes.
Here and there outcrops of granite adorned with splashes of Lichen erupt from the Bracken to bask in the warm sun.
Heady scents, vibrant colours, the sound and taste of the sea and the touch of the warm sun assail the senses.

The Jewels of the hedgerows and cliffs have faded as the bracken and trees rust.
Now they bear treasures of a different kind as Blackberry, Rosehip and Sloe are picked by beak and hand alike.
Fallen leaves litter the paths and lanes and smoke from the bonfires drifts on the cool air.
Hedgehog, Field Mouse and the distant church bell celebrate the festival of harvest as the nights close in.

There I stand in the busy airport, eyes closed, listening.
From far away, across the ocean, I hear a call,
A call I once was told would come;
For no matter where I roam, Sarnia always calls me home.

John Carré Buchanan

The Factory - John Buchanan

The tall Echium sways in the breeze.
A myriad of purple trumpets call
summoning the tiger striped workforce
with a silent blast of colour and scent.

Starting from the base the workers ascend,
diligently probing each nectary as they pass.
Their wings hum briefly as they move on
practicing allogamy as they go.

From the cap they drop on to the breeze
and fly onward; to the next tower.
They don’t punch in and out
the bright sun’s course tracks their day.

Elsewhere the plant’s red and black security staff,
Keep a watchful eye, removing;
‘All Pubescent Hoodlum Intending Disrupting Supply’,
By eating them.

Here in nature’s factory
everyone plays their part;
and the humble poet watching
marvels at the art.

John Buchanan

Tree Mooning - Robert Platts

A golden memory from a flotilla holiday with my wife and two young daughters years ago. "Tree mooning" so named after I described said eveing to a friend who enjoys his red wine and who commented -

"Being with family, hic - now that's the tree mooning of life" - Robert.

Tree Mooning - Robert Platts

We left the beach and dusty road
... And scrambled up the rock strewn hill
The moon was full, as were our hearts
And all around was still

Below and far, calm spread the sea,
reflecting heaven silver blue.
Such a scene lent ecstasy
to an already heady brew

That warm night, with family close,
our memories stamped in tune,
and we howled, Oh! my how we howled
at that huge, yellow moon.

Next morning as we woke at peace,
light streaming through our portholes bright,
caught voices from our neighbour's boat;
“Gosh! Did you hear those wolves last night? '

Robert Platts

What A Traffic System - Denise Bishop

A Humourous poem. No Diction, meant to be read as it is written with a Guernsey accent Caw La! (Not many of us left now Eh!) Just a bit of a giggle. - Denise

What A Traffic System - Denise Bishop

Caw, The Traffic over 'ere, it's getting really bad,
There's more cars on the roads than we thought we'd 'ever 'ave.
you 'ave to set out early, Cause there's always a delay,
... But the driver's they get aggressive, But no-one will give way.

Then theres temporary traffic lights, A temporary surface down,
But where's the Bloney workmen, Ahh Standing looking round.
If you want to go to town to get your shopping done,
It's guaranteed a que of cars that goes on and on and on.

If you want a parking space, it seems you wait for days,
Surely there's an answer! there Must be other ways.
There's State debates about this problem,
But All they do is Talk,

Well I know the answer me!, BAN the cars we'll walk.

Denise Bishop

As Sure As I'll Ever Be - Aindre Reece-sheerin

Can you see what I can’t see
Could you be me if I were thee
What is it that you do there
Could you still do it if you were over here

Why is 2 times 2 four
Why does it rhyme with a knocking at the door
Or falling on the floor
Or being like a bird to Soar

Where am I who am I Why
Am I really innately shy
Just like a pig in a sty
Why can’t I take wing and fly

Why is ‘it’ so
Where should 'i' go –now
What is next
What was then
Where is now
Who am I why

Aindre Reece-sheerin