At the edge of the lake they stand,
Remote controllers in their hand,
Staring in rapt concentration,
Each to his yacht – full attention.
Through their thumbs the wind strength sensing,
Alert to subtle changes, tensing,
Tweaking tillers, adjusting course,
Trimming sails and feeling the force.
Suddenly, from behind me,
A startling black flash
Darts past my legs;
Sleek pointed wings,
Forked tail, streamlined,
Flying ankle-height,
Great British summer:
Gloomy grey,
Fine rain.
Cagouled damp tourists
Amble about
Ambivalently.
Like a submarine spaceship
Or a swimming saucer
Sailing serenely below the surface,
Gracefully flexing
From saucer to cup and back again,
Gulls circle greedily overhead
Feasting on summer’s sudden bounty –
The day the ants fly.
My son suggested I try out
A poem with even meter throughout,
So here am I a-sat in the sun
To see if the process can be fun!
Cream, grey, blue, yellow
Blue, turquoise, pink, green.
The pottery cottages stand in a row,
Pastel-painted and pristine.
They gather in a crowd at nine,
Every Saturday morning,
Come rain or shine.
The regulars greet each other,
A community run,
Like sister and brother.
A thicket of thrusting thorns,
A tumult of tangled tentacles,
Spiky stems snarling,
Vigorous, vicious,
Like serpents of Medusa,
Eager to ensnare the unwary.