Poems 3

These are four new poems hot off the press. Hope you enjoy them

Annabel Mason’s Potions

Annabel Mason mixed potions for folks 
that didn’t trust doctors the pills and the like
She mixed up the brew for the ailment
That was made just for you.

Annabel Mason brewed teas for sick
the afflicted the weak and distressed
She harvested that which grew for free
and made up a potion just right for me.

Annabel Mason was honest and kind
 healed the locals from what she could find
She never spent much or asked owt back
dispensed all her cures for gratis and thanks

Annabel Mason was clever and bright
dispensed that which was safe and true. 
 She treated the whole before others knew why
But died all alone next to the stove


Poor as
A church mouse with
not a grain of
corn to feed off
without a seed to
chew or nibble at
as currency for mice
comes sheathed in husks
and not elaborate purses
because pennies are no 
use to that young
church mouse, trust me.

Right as
Rain that falls upon
the welcome soil of
parched and dusty gardens
but is rain right 
when all is rain
and soil is soaked
from endless showers that
drown the worms in
muddy pools which are
not right believe me.

Warm as
toast newly made, juggled
in expectant hands for 
further lavishing of toppings
that make it more 
than burnt bread that
soon goes cold if
not processed quickly enough
to savour the flavour 
of crunchy and warm 
not crispy and cold
is disappointing definitely


 Fear that lies beneath
a frame of sturdy disbelief
but rumbles up when tension mounts
to fill your head with nagging doubts
that all is not as it should be

Time drags through murky pools 
on a doom laden ship of fools
transporting those that cannot face
the dreaded consequences with grace
or calmness and serenity
that help the carrier to cope.

The time between in unknowing
expands the chasm forever growing
of  what could be or maybe not
to know the judgement offered that
will relieve or relive the agony of
a future that is more uncertain.

Within is where my deepest fears
dwell, safely locked for the year
until that moment comes forth
when inevitable answers are sought
to map the course of future life.

Hectors Cabbages

They came from miles around to gaze upon
his wondrous veg and scrumptious fruit. 
They marvelled at his champion leeks
his ping pong ball sized gooseberries  
the perfect carrots and prized parsnips
all set out for judge to wonder at.

He swept the board at the annual show
where everything he seemed to grow
was attached to a rosette marked FIRST
Hector smiled a winning smile
of one who had it all worked out
until one day the brassica question reared.

Why does Hector not show Cabbages?
Mrs Arnott asked in innocence tones
the hush descended like mist on a marsh
he skirted the Savoy the Pointed the Tundra
 and sidestepped the Red and the Spring 
to not discuss his brassica thing

His wife quickly leapt to Hectors defence
he makes nowt to cabbages and greens
not partial to Brussels and Kale it seems
The murmurs began as onlookers shuffled 
away from Hectors remaining prize winners
to examine Mrs Bothroyds Victoria Sandwich

Hector retired from showing his wares
retreated to the solace of his plot
To dwell amongst his glowing toms 
and wander through the frames of runners
To never show another winner
but stick with providing for his dinner

Old Hector died the following Christmas
the plot was annexed by Geoff Whatmough
the number two to Hectors first
who swept the floor in leafy veg
(as Hector didn’t do Cabbages)
but never won the roots and fruits


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