When the pen takes control.

Vile hordes of Hell spew

from the belly of the earth

the stuff of nightmares

Between the solitary, candy-striped lighthouse and the white converted coastguard cottages, as the sun starts it’s daily descent in the western sky I see them exploring where the waves rhythmically, relentlessly, melt the sands, and wonder, had Shelley witnessed such a scene, would he have composed a wondrous poem to, “ The mudlark.”

Woke up this morning feeling rough

after an evening to remember

in this cold frosty November

regrets now that I’d had enough

of cake and alcoholic stuff

consumed on the auspicious day

when friends and family all say

how pleased and proud they feel to be

part of this happy company

who I hope feel like me today

when old Jack left the Navy

he left his heart there too

he missed the camaraderie

being part of the crew

and if he started to feel lonely

there was no one to turn to

so if you’re thinking of joining up

this could be the only tale that’s true

Old Jack he was a sailor

wore a suit of Navy blue

he’d sailed on all the seven seas

from New York to Timbuktu

and when he went home he’d tell stories

but most of them weren’t true.

As we moved on to the open ground

chatting, laughing, till we found

something that really made us stare,

who on earth would leave that there

I thought, and more in fear than surprise

I could hardly believe my eyes,

admittedly it gave me quite a start

this example of the craftsman’s art,

such a finely carved wooden chair,

who could leave that sitting there

my partner said we should be wary

it might belong to the King of the Fairies.