Panther

Panther

How she stands there among the sandy grass

Feline and fierce, above her throttled victim

Too small to defend her kill

Taking breaths and taking stock

The smell of blood already on the wind

Carrying the message of an easy meal

To carnivores and scavengers

That forever dog her hunting expeditions

How stealthily she moves to tidy up

To shift the body to a safer place

The strength of muscles and teeth

To quickly drag and scramble

To climb a tree, up inside the canopy

And leave the lifeless legs dangling

Beyond the jaws of hyenas

Out of sight of vultures

Allowing her some time to rest

And breathe easy once again

How she lies there in the crook of the branch

Amidst the dappling shadowed leaves

Hidden by her rosetted coat

Her larder full and waiting

A softly panting panther

This lithe and lissom leopard

Her glinting watchful eyes

Savage and solitary

Stealthy, opportunistic

Safe and secure

Until the hunger pangs return

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Silbury Hill

Silbury Hill

Looming above us, occluding

We walk forward into its shadow

And for a while we are darker, cooler

Welcoming its shade on a hot day

We begin to skirt around

Following its rounded even contours

Till we emerge again minutes later

Beyond the ancient mystery

First the halo’d penumbra

Then the eye-blinding flickering flash

Of unfettered sunlight

The same people, yet changed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fracking Hell

Fracking Hell

The search for cheap energy goes on,

A quest that’s certainly got my backing,

But now they’ve come up with a new wheeze,

That involves a fine process called fracking.

Now I’m not so sure this is a good ploy -

Bad consequences may come to pass,

As they begin to hack open the Earth,

In the relentless pursuit of cheap gas.

They dig down deep into the planet,

Seeking deposits that lie under the ground,

Pumping in chemicals under great pressure,

Forcing out the shale gas that they’ve found.

Now this scheme sounds too good to be true.

And there’s no environmental free ride -

There’s bound to be a cost to be paid somewhere,

And we should consider the possible down-side.

There’s arguments and evidence on both sides,

The scientists are not sure how they should guide us,

But the energy firms frack on regardless,

Of the strong feelings that divide us.

Cuadrilla seem to be riding rough-shod

Over protests, and giving no quarter,

But how do we know what goes on beneath?

And that they’re not polluting the water?

And what about earth-tremors we’re feeling?

Is it an earthquake they’ve left in their wake?

With their drilling, and splitting, and pumping,

Is it more than the geology can take?

And isn’t fossil fuels all over again?

Like the coal and oil story repeated,

Putting off the inevitable day,

When the resource will be finally depleted?

We can’t go on like this forever,

Stealing from future generations,

When the planet is finally exhausted,

And goes on to Emergency Stations.

 No, I’m afraid that this fracking,

This cracking and hacking,

The future it’s hijacking,

And the gas that it’s ransacking,

Cannot continue.

It’s them, not the Earth, we should send packing,

The exploiters we should be sacking,

And looking what else we could do.

We must cease all the toil,

Going on under the soil,

Stop making the ground boil,

And the landscape to despoil.

This breaking and taking can’t last for ever:

Fracking’s just more exploitation.

I’m not sure what it’s doing to the planet,

But it’s clearly splitting the nation.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Afternoon In Imber

Afternoon In Imber

A path trails away

Into thick undergrowth

Overgrown from infrequent use

Testament to long neglect

Towards the shells of houses

Their windows standing empty

Gouged out like eyes

Staring unblinking

Towards the church

Whose dark and crumbling stones

Still preserve the fabric of a building

Its tower holding bells unrung

No longer consecrated

Its congregation long departed

The lonely village street

Deserted and unkempt

Eerily quiet in the afternoon

Once peopled long ago

Before the wartime Army came

And asked them all to go

To leave a realistic playground

Where they could practice combat

Throw some ordnance around

Unopposed and unobserved

Deep within this hidden fold

Can we see the faces of the missing?

Peering round the corner

Where the bakery used to be?

And are there ghosts among the grass

Picking their way between the holes

Dug out by the detonations?

And are there any spirits here

That walk between the wire and the fences?

And are there any still alive

Of those cruelly displaced

Who remember Imber as it was

And might return one day

To dwell here once again?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fatberg

Fatberg

We got the emergency call at night,

And we headed out there at first light

He’d said “there seems to be a blockage I think –

We were alerted by the terrible stink”.

Our brave men soon climbed under the ground,

And were frankly amazed at what they soon found:

The sewage had swelled up into a great ball,

Went right up to the ceiling and wall-to-wall.

It was the biggest obstruction we’d seen,

And to tackle it, nobody was keen.

It looked like the worst project from hell,

And that doesn’t even cover the smell.

We named it the fatberg – just for a joke -

But it weren’t funny when we started to poke,

To discover of what it was made,

And tried to dislodge it with a sharp spade.

It consisted of fat and congealed grease,

Then wetwipes and nappies were the next piece.

Sanitary towels was one of the thirds,

And the rest was an assortment of turds.

You see, people go to the loo in a rush,

And give not a care to whatever they flush.

It’s a general waste disposal can:

They tend to forget once it’s gone down the pan.

But I digress, for disposal was now the task.

How did we shift it? I’m hearing you ask.

Well, lend an ear and don’t be too gobby,

And I’ll tell you how we shifted that jobbie.

The thing was enormous that was for sure:

We had to get on top to effect a cure.

A man had to ascend, using crampons,

And ropes to clamber over the tampons.

We pulled and tugged it from the crown,

And even considered melting it down.

We used hammers and drills of all types,

And attacked it with axes and hosepipes.

The thing wouldn’t yield, resisted the assault.

We tried everything, but it wasn’t our fault,

And we realised the thing was stuck tight,

So then we resorted to dynamite.

It was only meant to be a small blast,

But once we’d started, the die it was cast.

We weren’t sure how far off we should walk,

But it was like a bottle blowing its cork.

You see the sewer’s narrow like a funnel,

So all of the debris shot down the tunnel.

We were in the way – that’s the truth of it;

Not surprising that we got covered in shit.

We were well messy, if you get my drift,

But at least it was in blocks we could shift.

As a workforce we looked sad and sorry,

But we loaded it all up on a lorry.

So next time you think you might go for a piss,

Listen closely and reflect upon this:

It’s a nice moral I think that you’ll find:

Out of sight ain’t the same as out of mind.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Zero Hour

Zero Hour

I’m the man that keeps the country going,

I’m a flexible little hero:

I work for every Corporation,

But my contract says only zero.

The company controls everything I do:

In fact they make my life impossibly hard.

I’d really like to argue with them,

But they’re holding every card.

They demand to command my loyalty,

And would like to have my gratitude,

But I need the minimum wage they’re paying,

If I’m to pay for fuel and food.

I stack your supermarket shelves,

With cornflakes, baked beans and cans of beer-o,

And many other things I can’t afford,

But they still treat me like a zero.

Shifts are week-to-week and month-to-month:

I never know when there’ll be some work -

I’ve no sick-time off and there’s a pay-freeze:

In fact they treat me like a jerk.

Some folks call it exploitation -

That’s only one expression I’ve heard.

They have all the powers over my hours,

So slavery’s probably a better word.

I get no holidays that are paid for,

But I’m meant to be of good cheer-o.

My open contract means I can be sacked:

I’m not a person, merely a zero.

I serve out your burgers and your fries,

Yet I’m usually totally ignored:

The smell of the grease will never cease -

All this for so little reward.

I can’t complain or blow the whistle,

They’d just turn round and laugh,

And next week there’d be no hours to work

I’d no longer be part of the staff.

I clean your offices all through the night,

Using chemicals – I’ve got all the gear-o:

That’s how I labour, me and my neighbour:

I’m just a resource, I’m just a zero.

  

There’s nowt I can do – it’s Catch-22,

And it eats away at your soul:

You just can’t beat The Company,

They’ve got me completely under control.

I’m no longer a person, I’m a mere cipher,

They’ve made my life a complete bitch:

They only call me when they want me,

As if I’ve got some sort of on/off switch.

It’s a bind or a devil’s bargain,

And I’m reduced to living in fear-o:

This is the curse of modern commerce -

No longer a human, but a mere zero.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Burger Anyone?

Burger Anyone?

Roll up, roll up, come see what they’ve got,

Come to the front and take up your seat -

It’s time for a taste of their new burger,

And to see if it’s anything like meat!

They’ve used the best of technology

To create this small in vitro patty.

Research in advanced forms of biology,

And the result, they think, looks quite natty.

It was all grown in the test-tube,

From a culture of harvested stem-cells.

They had a great pile, and kept them all sterile,

In a mix of antibiotics and gels.

And when they had enough to get hold of,

They added flavourings to give it some taste,

And colourings and other additives,

To produce a pink, soft-textured paste.

They moulded it and pressed it into its shape,

Until it was ready for them to bake:

Just the one, single burger, you know,

That cost two hundred thousand to make.

The problem is - it don’t seem too appetizing,

Which could be a bit of an issue -

They need to add some fat and some blood,

And a bit more connective tissue.

Nor does it look very attractive,

Despite all the science that’s occurred:

It’s small, and wrinkled and brown,

With every appearance of a small turd.

But they have to get over that drawback,

To produce something less dingy and curled,

And think of the nutritional benefits ,

If we are ever going to feed the World.

We’ve moved from science-fiction to fact,

But we have to think through its release,

Cos tho’ half the planet seems to be starving,

The other half seems to be obese.

Is technology really the answer here?

Don’t we need nation to speak unto nation?

To sort out production and distribution,

More than this Frankenstein creation?

  

Do we really want food that’s grown in a lab?

Is that really what we would wish?

By men in white coats with their clipboards,

Staring intently at a Petrie dish?

So next time you’re pining for protein,

And you’re panting for something that’s bovine,

Don’t be wishing away animals and farms -

Just think about how you’d like to dine.

Of course you can take a different track,

By doing something that’s novel and edgy:

Just give up eating meat altogether,

And accept it’s time to turn veggie.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Half Way There

Half-way There

I confess it brought me up short

When I was forced to stop

And think hard about it

But I suppose I should not have been surprised

That even at my modest middle age

I was more than half-way along

Beyond some unnoticed landmark

Some signpost in the fog

Already past the highest peak

And The Great Divide

How many more heartbeats

To pump the blood along?

How many more times to fill the lungs

Or exhale once again?

To blink, to dream, to sleep?

And is the onward journey

The steps that still remain

On a gentle downhill slope

Towards a comfortable night

Where I can take my rest?

Or more a rapid tumble downwards

A sudden undignified descent

Of a craggy hillside full of stones

Falling, tumbling ever-faster

Towards a sudden painful end?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

If That's The Truth (You Can Stick It)

If That’s The Truth (You Can Stick It)

They say that honesty’s the best policy,

That we all have a duty to be straight -

Well, I’m not so sure about that, my friends,

Or that the truth is really so great.

So let me tell you what I know to be true,

And let me speak exactly as I find,

Then you can all judge for yourselves,

And be ready to make up your own mind.

I’m getting older, and will get no younger,

I’m no longer down there, deep in the groove -

There are bits of me moving south-ward,

And everything hurts or creaks when I move.

I prefer Radio 4 to Radio 1 -

I find it easier on the heart.

I’ve lost track of pop music -

I’m turning into an old fart.

I no longer feel butch,

I don’t follow fashion and such,

My house is the size of a hutch,

My hands are clammy to touch,

And I’m drinking too much.

My clothes are out of date,

I’m succumbing to fate,

My life I’m starting to hate,

I never hear from my best mate,

And I’m well over-weight.

I owe taxes to the Revenue ,

That’s what it says on my statement.

I don’t have any money stashed away,

And now they’re chasing for late payment.

My children have flown the nest,

Even though I gave them my best,

I no longer pass every test,
I don’t get enough rest,

And everything’s gone West.

Sex is less interesting (or possible),

My libido’s right down on the floor.

I’ve lost touch with everybody,

And my girl-friend don’t love me no more.

  

We’re buggering up the planet -

Mankind just seems fixated on war.

It’s all greed and selfishness,

I sometimes wonder what it’s all for.

And the Universe is an infinite void,

Earth just a tiny, meaningless speck,

No other intelligence out there,

I mean – what the heck!

Seems like we’re here on our tod,

And, besides, there’s no God.

Nothing in life is fair,

It’s all wear and tear,

A long bloody nightmare,

Why should we bother to care?

I’ve got more than a hunch,

That as we take punch after punch,

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

Politicians deceive and they lie,

So I’ve become a cynical old guy,

No matter how hard I try.

There’s no answer to “why?”,

Children continue to cry,

The odds we can’t defy,

Life’s a bitch

And we’re all gonna die!

I may sound uncouth,

Bitter and twisted forsooth,

But ain’t that really the truth?

Seems to me that’s exactly the ticket –

We’re all batting on a sticky wicket,

But if that’s really the truth,

Then I’m afraid you can stick it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

My God But It's Hot

My God But It’s Hot

The flags on the flagpoles hang limp

The air’s as dry as sandpaper

The Earth’s turning back into dust

And as the mercury climbs

All my energy’s shot

I’m sweating a lot

My God, but it’s hot!

The lawn has turned brown and yellow

And patches have died quite away

The veggies are wilted and small

The Test Match goes on uninterrupted

The heatwave goes on and on

Pleasant it’s not

In fact it’s quite grot

My God, but it’s hot!

Everyone’s stripping off & perspiring

We’re getting through gallons of sunscreen

But still our skin’s burning

The Sun’s a bright disc in the sky

Almost like a red dot

I’m sure it’s a dark plot

My God, but it’s hot!

The temperature is just “Scorchio”

In French it’s “tres chaud”

In German “sehr heiss”

It could be in Fahrenheit

It might be in Centrigade

The thermometer’s shot

I don’t know what’s what

My God, but it’s hot!

The forecast holds no relief

And reservoirs are wasting away

There’ll soon be an end to sprinklers

And a ban on the use of hosepipes

Then the ground will turn to powder

And whatever we’ve got

Even fresh  food will rot

My God, but it’s hot!

The fans toil away regardless

But there’s no cooling relief

Yet this is only a Summer

It’s the thing that we wanted

The Winter will be back soon enough

I care not a jot

For that is our lot

My God, but it’s hot!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 20th July 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 20^th July 2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       The leader of the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP) and of Bromham Parish Council, Dave Wentwrong, took drastic action this week to shake up his council party ahead of next year’s parish elections. In a long-expected re-shuffle, dubbed “the night of long scythes”, Wentwrong dispensed with the services of William “Piglet” Vague, Micky “Madcase” Gove, and Owen Shatonsome.  In turn, there were promotions into the inner Parish Cabinet for some of the village’s best-looking women.  Badgers out in the village fields were observed to be celebrating.

2.       Seend separatists have disclaimed all responsibility for the wrecking of a Bromham tractor in the disputed border territories between the two super-villages. Diplomats of the United Numpties (UN) in Trowbridge have appealed to both sides for restraint, and to allow accident inspectors on to the crash site.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Waterworld

Waterworld

Who turned on the water-works?

And left the nasal tap

Running and dripping

In the middle of my face?

It seems the flow is never-ending

A steady stream of liquid

Pouring from my puffy eyes

And dropping from my nose

Into crumpled handkerchiefs and tissues

Who made the view so bleary

Unclear and smeary?

The blubbing and the blabbing

Dabbing and wiping

Through the sneezing

Wheezing in the throat

Drowning in a soggy world

Sometimes gushing in a torrent

Then slowing to a gentle leaking

In this wet and watery world

Of pollen-polluted nostrils

In a hot and fevered face

That can only find relief

Buried deep within a pillow

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Manopause

Manopause

You can see I’m not the youngest of men,

And getting older’s one of Nature’s laws,

But I was amazed to find that this state,

Has a name – and it’s the Andropause!

I thought “bloody hell! It’s named after me!”

And apparently it happens to males,

So here I am in my (ahem) early fifties,

Hanging on to youth by my finger-nails!

I thought I’d better get on and take action,

To counter the loss of libido and sterility,

Between my mid-life and Alzheimers,

And to get back some of my virility.

Now I’m a Man Behaving Badly,

Re-stating what it is to be male -

I’ve started learning guitar and the uke,

And I’m growing my hair for a pony-tail.

The mountain-bike is order,

And, cos I don’t want to look like a Charley

I’m going to get me a motor-bike,

Which, of course, will be a Harley.

That’s what I’ll ride in good weather,

But I’ll need something cooler of course,

So I’ve been round to the dealers,

I’ll soon take delivery of my new Porsche.

I’m having my ear piercing tomorrow,

To show you all that I’m one of the few

And, to complete the picture, next week,

I’m going in for my very first tattoo.

Then I’ll wear my baseball cap with pride,

Pulling it down low over my eyelids.

I might have to have some work done there,

But I’m determined to get down with the kids.

You see it’s not all testosterone and Viagra,

And I say this without any compunction,

There’s more ways than hormone treatment

To ward off erectile dysfunction.

No – the hot flushes and flashes,

The irritability and sterility can wait -

There’s a lot more to be worried about,

Such as the state of my prostate.

  

I may be losing my hair and my marbles,

Gradual decline may be a part of the story,

But I’m determined to hang on to my manhood,

And go out in a grand blaze of glory.

You see some of it may be biological,

But it’s psychological, to tell you the truth,

I’m a grumpy old man, sporting a fake tan,

And I’m trying to hang on to my youth.

So you can all look at me and laugh,

As you sit there with your slack jaws,

But I won’t be the one who’s declining -

I’m off to defeat the Manopause.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Horseshoe

Horseshoe

The spade bit harshly down into the surface

Turning back the dry crust of the earth

Revealing a peatier blackness beneath

The gash growing wider as I worked the ground

I hit the damned thing hard enough

A sudden clang of metal hitting metal

A solid and unyielding object

Jarring wrist and knee

Provoking a flurry of curses

Dirt-encrusted, I pulled it up

Disengaged it from the soil

That had clasped it close interred

Abandoned, or lost, long ago

The jagged, rusted surface harsh against my fingers

Bent out of shape, nail-impaled

The holes clogged and solid

Yet still a horseshoe

And I thought about the foot that had held it

The living flesh upon the hoof

The toe, the quarter, the heel

The weight borne upon the limb

The tendons, ligaments and tissues

The keratin structure that had met the metal

The cornified material that meant that man

Could ride upon his back

Or give him the grip required

To let him pull the cart or plough

And how he must have worked upon this ground

Toiled to earn his daily oats

And I saw the farrier in the blacksmith’s yard

The hot-bellowed forge-fire behind him

The anvil, the pincers and the hammer

The nippers and the knife

The clincher and the rasp

His protective leather apron

Spread between his legs

And the sweat beaded upon his brow

The spread of his mighty shoulders

As he sought to pull the horse

To where he wanted him

But now this long-buried thing

This damaged, crumpled crescent

Is but a modern curiosity

Residue of a different world

An age of hard rustic labour

An old talismanic, folkloric object

That might symbolise good luck

Or at least provide a welcome break

From the back-breaking task of digging

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Watchers Of The Skies

Watchers Of The Skies

Someone, somewhere wants to know

What we’re getting up to

Our access, our codes and security

Our secrets and confidences

The bits and the bytes and the bleeps

The residue that gives us away

Tracking us through online DNA

To follow the digital trail

Of our electronic footprints

Through the blizzard of data

They’re tapping and taping

Wireless communications

Intercepting the signals

Listening to the chaff and the chatter

Clocking our clicks

Scraping our screens

And capturing our keystrokes

Deep-mining the datasets

Following our every move

Wherever we go

Our emails and calls

Our texts and our tweets

Interested in whatever we do

Whatever we’re looking at

Whichever the websites

And whoever we’re talking to

And who are these spooks and these spies

In their dubious agencies

And non-existent departments

Focusing their prism upon our lives

With their online surveillance?

What is the intelligence they seek?

The knowledge they need to keep us all safe?

The mandate they work to?

And who are the masters they answer to

So unaccountable and unreachable?

Are these the same people

Who seek to calm us with platitudes

And tell us that we have nothing to fear?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Hesitation

Hestitation

Some chaps find it hard to speak straight:

Their listeners just have to wait.

Their speech is a mess,

They start to digress,

Then it’s all stop, start and…. hesitate.

I don’t think it’s cos they’re stupid or dumb,

More like their minds have simply turned numb.

They become all unsure,

It’s so hard to endure,

When all they can come up with is ……“um”.

This problem can make them feel sick,

As they battle with their verbal tic.

They might come out with an …..“ah”,

And they don’t get very far,

I’m sorry – I’m not taking the mick!

Don’t mock – it could happen to you, man -

Bet you wouldn’t know what to do, man.

So don’t be uncertain,

Nor go for a burton,

After all – they say “to ‘er is human”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Toast Rack

Toast Rack

Breakfast’s the laziest meal of the day,

A quite casual repast as a rule -
It’s not something so organised

That you need to watch the toast cool.

No - straight from the toaster and onto the plate,

Horizontal and any which way -

Whack on the butter and marmalade:

A sloppy approach to the start of the day.

The idea of it all in a line,

All vertical and serried in ranks,

It’s just too orderly for my taste,

We don’t need it on parade – no thanks!

Life’s too regimented as it is,

Without starting the day so formal,

So keep the toast-rack in the cupboard,

Chill out, and carry on just as normal!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 13th July 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 13^th July 2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Bromham struck back across the Seend border yesterday, by sending in ground forces to arrest senior Seend Separatist leaders in reprisal for continued cabbage incursions.  A number of Bromham residents have had to take shelter against incoming carrot attacks over the past week, and armed forces remain on high military alert.  Sources in Trowbridge say that all attempts at mediation have so far failed, and have appealed for restraint on both sides.

2.       In a historic vote in the Parish Council today, a narrow majority voted in favour of allowing women to buy their own drinks in the snug bar of The Wounded Ferret for the first time. Pub leaders fear that the contentious vote could lead a permanent split in the pub’s clientele.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

An Angel On The Bus

An Angel On The Bus

We were getting worried about Grandma,

A widow, she’d long been left all alone,

She was getting more and more forgetful,

She seemed to be in a world of her own.

But she was a determined old lady -

We didn’t want her being put out to grass.

Then one day a new vista opened up,

When she got hold of her first bus pass.

She took to it like a duck to the water,

She became known as the “Off-peak Rover”;

Soon she was a frequent traveller,

And used it to voyage about all over.

Her confidence picked up, we noticed,

And she became increasingly keen.

When we asked her to tell us about it,

Her features became calm and serene.

“You see,” she said, “I’ve had an encounter,

About which it’s not seemly to boast,

But on the Ninety-Seven last week,

I ran into one of the Heavenly Host.”

Now we thought this was pretty unlikely,

And knew that Grandma was liable

To be somewhat over-impressed,

By things she’d read in the Bible.

We asked her what she was talking about,

What on earth was making her so happy,

And, suspecting that we doubted her word,

She became all defensive and snappy.

She said she’d seen an Angel on the bus,

A Close Encounter, of the heavenly kind,

He was just sitting there all on his own,

And she’d been so near, on the seat just behind.

She could have reached out and touched him;

To his collar and the hairs on his neck,

And she trembled in her joy and elation,

As she sat there, high up on the top deck.

His figure was picked out in silhouette,

And about him there was a sunny aura,

At least that’s how it looked at the time,

As she’d remarked to her friend Dora.

  

He had a special and ghostly presence,

His aroma made her feel slightly faint,

But there was one further thing that clinched it,

The proof that he was truly a saint.

She was a woman of faith and belief,

She didn’t need to have her flames fanned,

But it was right there in front of her,

Truly this Angel sat at God’s right hand.

She knew that she would have missed this vision,

If she’d been travelling by cycle

But there it was clearly, on the label,

In bold, curly letters – “Saint Michael”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Beneath The Surface

Beneath The Surface

There! Near the reeds, on the far bank

A sinuous, slow movement

Languid and lazy

A suggestion of a dark shape, a shadow

Beneath the silvered surface

The shimmering pond-water

Implacable, cold, lily-covered

Under a slow-warming sun

Its midge-infested meniscus

Disturbed by the easy-rising minnows

Conceals a waiting presence

Snout, and focused steady eye

Belie the beating gills and waving tail

Needled fins and razored teeth

Lie in silent patient deadly wait

Inside a green and grassy cover

Until it is time to strike

To kill and eat

Before disappearing

Back into the depth

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Snouts In The Trough

Snouts In The Trough

It’s good that we live in in a democracy,

With flags blazing and banners uncurled;

Here in the Mother of Parliaments -

An example we hold out to the world.

And we take this stuff damned seriously:

We’re not mere amateur hobbyists,

But now we’ve taken our eye off the ball,

And let in the canker of lobbyists.

But it takes two to tango they say,

Someone who needs a question to be asked,

And someone whose position is privileged,

With a streak of greed that’s thinly masked.

There’s a lack of transparency

In this access for cash

Their action is rash

Trying to look flash

As they sit in a sash

Making a huge mash

And principles into trash.

Where’s honesty and integrity gone?

Public service in office?

It’s gone down the abyss

They’re taking the piss

By behaving like this

Let’s give them a hiss

Tell them to kiss

Their cushy jobs good-bye.

Only hidden cameras and microphones

Have blown this thing open -

Insider access is a wheeze

They start with a tease

Then outline their fees

Soon acting with ease

They should be on their knees

Not slopping in grease

And wallowing in sleaze.

And to add insult to the injury,

By using these tools, they take us for fools,

And with faces all innocently turned,

Claim “I was only following the rules!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

One-Way Ticket (To Mars)

One-Way Ticket (to Mars)

I was looking for a new challenge:

Something to banish senility’s fears,

When I spotted the advertisement,

A good way to spend my retirement years.

It said they were looking for astronauts,

To head on out into deep space,

So I signed myself up for the training,

And made my entry into the space race.

They had a great vision for mankind:

It was a mission to colonise Mars!

We’d be blasting off from the Earth,

And journeying towards the stars.

Yes, we were setting off for the Red Planet,

To establish a colony, or a base-camp,

Like the pioneers in the days of old,

I felt like Columbus as I mounted the ramp.

The blast-off was truly spectacular,

As our rocket rose towards the night sky,

And Mission Control raised a big cheer,

As they sadly waved us good-bye.

Then we pulled out of Earth’s gravity,

And, as we carefully avoided The Moon,

It hadn’t yet even occurred to me,

That I’d become a hostage to fortune.

You see, when a man settles down for a while,

And there’s no alcohol on board, no drinking,

His thoughts turn to existential matters,

And that’s when I got round to some thinking.

If we’ve dropped all of our boosters,

And we’re voyaging in this tin can,

How are we going to get back from Mars?

Won’t we be stuck there, to a man?

I voiced my concerns to the captain,

And mentioned it to the rest of the crew,

But they all just fell about in their laughter,

And said that they thought that I knew!

It turns out that this is a one-way journey!

I’ve been issued with a single ticket!

There’s no possible way to return -

Well – I mean – that’s simply not cricket!

  

I knew that it would take a long time,

If mankind was to make his mark,

But I didn’t realise just how final,

That day when I’d turned up to embark.

We’re to be the first of our species,

To land on Mars – that is our fate,

And if we survive our arrival,

Our next job will be to pro-create!

Now I’ve had a look round at the rest of the crew,

And there’s none I’d want go out with on a date,

So it could be a long, lonely existence,

If I’m the only one not taking a mate.

There’s one girl who’s been looking at me,

And paying me lots of attention,

I think I know what’s on her agenda,

I think I can spot her intention!

So here I am, trapped in this spaceship,

With only the Sun’s gravity to tow it,

Heading off to a fate worse than death –

It’s space, Jim, but not as we know it.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

(One-Way) Mission (To Mars)

Mission

We left upon a high tide

Of love and hope and enthusiasm

That pushed us gently off from home

Out into the starry night

To travel upon waves of faith

And the best of our technology

We embarked upon the journey

In our silvered ship of dreams

Carrying deep within the belly of its hold

Supplies and building blocks of life

Essentials for the colony

And a fragile early settlement

And now we can only wait

And voyage on regardless

Tracking our co-ordinates

On our pre-determined trajectory

A long-distance one-way ticket

Through cold and airless space

There will be no return

No coming back across the void

From this long-term venture

To a dry and dusty planet

With its darker horizon

Orbiting further from our Sun

But we may survive for long enough

To thrive and procreate the species

To build a tenuous foothold

Upon the rocky surface

Where we can stand defiant

And watch the Earth rise once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Socks Without Partners

Socks Without Partners

I’ll tell you a story of heart-ache and loss,

With a happy ending that’s a heartener,

Of a garment that was lost in the washing,

The tale of a sock without a partner.

Tootsie, for that was the sock’s name,

Suddenly found herself lonely and lonesome,

Carried off in the basket with the rest,

But realised she was all on her own-some.

They’d gone, as usual, in the washer together,

Then her other half seemed not to be there.

How had they managed to drift apart,

When they’d always been part of a pair?

She’d found herself in with some dirty types;

Their filthy behaviour caused her to wince,

And she found herself turned inside out,

When she finally came out of the rinse.

There’d been too much of a crowd in the basket,

With bras and knickers she’d been forced to mingle,

And it was only as she hung on the line,

That she realised that she was now single.

There was no-one to meet her or match her,

She started to rue, her anxiety grew,

She knew she was useless on her own,

There was no purpose unless there were two.

Then a kindly old night-shirt took pity,

When he saw that Tootsie was crying.

He made a suggestion to the young sock:

There was a way out, something worth trying.

“There’s a special support group,” he told her,

“Where singles can meet with a view to dating:

Goes by the name of Socks Without Partners,

Where the lucky ones may end up by mating.”

“But I’m too old to find anyone now,

With my ticking biological clock,

No-one will want some-one as washed-up as me,”

Thus wailed the little pink and white sock.

“They’ll see that I’m neither modern nor new,

My stitching’s all bobbled and sunken,

My colour has faded, my pattern’s all shaded,

And my elastic’s completely shrunken.”

 The night-shirt replied, “it’s time that you tried,

By putting forward your very best foot.

And, of course, you’ll need to be on your toes,

If you want to get yourself out of this rut!”

“They don’t hang about in these places, you know,

If it’s a partner you’re after catching;

You only get two minutes for chatting,

It’s a new thing they call speed-matching.”

So Tootsie was thrown in the airing cupboard,

With no-one to love her, nobody to care,

When, just for a moment, somewhere in the pile,

Was that a flash of pink she could see there?

The colour wasn’t perfect it seemed,

The patterns on them differed some ways,

But they found that they had plenty in common,

To team up together for a few days.

The other old sock had lost his partner too,

And had been left long in this cupboard’s heat,

But they decided they could walk out together,

And, as a new partnership, they could meet.

So the moral of this story’s quite clear:

If you’ve been abandoned, don’t cry and moan -

There’s always some-one out there that’s for you,

Never give up if you’re left on your own.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

At The End Of The Pier

At The End Of The Pier

The gaps between the weathered planks below our feet

Left tantalising glimpses of the drop

Down to the restless grey boiling sea beneath

The waves slapping hard against the piles

Barnacled and seaweed-strewn

A watery world, above which we were held aloft

On the bracing breezy boardwalk

Heads down into the wind

Eyes hooded against the slanting light

Along the corroded iron-girdered structure

A cheeky finger jutting out from land

Edged around by rusting railings

Their layers of leaded paint

Flaking in the sea-salt onslaught

Of many stormy seas

And elemental winters

The pier’s attractions sheltered in the middle

Clustered tight together in serried rows

Harbouring sweet and sickly smells

Of rock and ice-cream and candy-floss

What the butler-never-saw machines

And pulsating penny arcades

That held the promise of a prize

The seafood stalls set out their wares

Of prawns and cockles

Whelks and pin-hunted winkles

And shops that touted windmills

Flags and buckets and spades

Kiss-Me-Slowly cowboy hats

And revolving wire stands

Of saucy seaside postcards

Picturing pot-bellied punters

That had lost their little Willie

Then beyond the chevrons of deckchairs

The booths and bandstand of a bygone era

Faded relics of Edwardian grandeur

Towards the final destination

And an end of walking

The prow of this promenade

With but a single telescope

That cost a silver sixpence

To let the gormless gaze out into the bay

Before bowing to the inevitable

And setting out upon the journey back

That could never be as thrilling

As that first stroll out into the sea

And towards a setting sun

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it was just a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as I spread the marmalade upon my toast

And heard him explain some more about it

I better understood what it was that he was saying

When he announced that my local club

Would be punished with a points deduction

A reprimand and a swingeing fine

It appeared the team had broken the rules

And fielded what he said was an illegible player

Which is a rather different thing

And as the sports reporter’s voice carried on

The breakfast table began to fade away

And I was transported back to the touchline

From where I’d watched on Saturday last

And where I’d sought in vain to spot the winger

His whereabouts were uncertain, if not obscure

I just couldn’t make him out at all

A pass went out to him, to run down the wing

In an attempt, perhaps, to defeat the off-side trap

But he just wasn’t there, and the ball ran into touch

His position being indecipherable

His off-the-ball movement unreadable

He was totally anonymous in the game

Occupying a lacuna of space out on the right

An unseen presence, missing in action

His role in the side no more than a mystery

The meaning something I couldn’t even guess

Then the room came sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast soft and buttery in my hand

My mug of tea gone cold and un-drunk

And the announcer now on a different story

Having moved on from the offence and investigation

To the scores elsewhere in the league

I’m still not sure that I’d heard him quite right

But upon more sober reflection

I think he’d used the right word after all

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014