When the pen takes control.

The ivy clambers up the walls

broken gutters take their bow

once children’s laughter filled these halls

but all is strangely silent now

look through the broken panes of glass

for many, memories remain

of sitting with their friends in class

until the home bell rings again

for this was once the village school

introducing either fun or fear

for some of whom it gave the tools

to get by throughout their years

while spinsters armed with just kind hearts

instructed all in the three Rs

Surely tis the Spring

cranes perform the dance of love

no words are needed

Before he can read

the young man knows right from wrong

words can be weapons

This story which I shall now relate

of an abbey on an island in a lake

and the tale of a generous potentate

who’s dead wife in the church was laid

so bequeathed to the abbey her silver plate

a gift much welcomed by the old prelate

that was put in the charge of an initiate

but he with the silver did absquatulate

hoping that by night he could escape

then mindful if captured of his likely fate

he left the treasure at the gates

As I sit upon the harbour side

from this picture it would appear

that though I’m eager to imbibe

and I have a bottle of beer

the main problem is clear to see

a bottle opener is what I need