Monday, November 4, 2013


Down at the cool seafront farm
outside the Bobo dog guarded barn
we kids gaggled with Pricilla the goose,
swam in the brine, played in the Mill wood,
climbed nearby Cat Nab, atop it stood,
watched the yolk-yellow sun go to roost.
Glyn, Vic, John, I and more,
by the silvery-blue-sea, the goldy-brown-shore.
Cast, our shadows on the wildcat hill.
We were jolly-sailors where The Ship Inn stands
but Robin Hood's merry little band
over in the wooded second gill.

Now a pale pumpkin-round moon
candle's the witchy-night's wintery-gloom.
Boy-games have met their inglorious end.
Fully-grown, each goes his own way,
sparing no darn thought for sunny-yesterday,
till with the wintery-night we blend?

On the backs of owls with bloody bills
the very cruel little people came,
riding high above the tops of trees and hills,
over pond and lake and old country lane.

On rocks in the sea the mermaids sat and sang
while along the shore the water-nymphs played,
there to be caught by the sharp eye of any young man
who onto the moonlit cliffs had strayed.

And on the pirates' or the smugglers' ship
he might have spied far out beyond the bay,
the jolly sailors, after their all-round trip,
through his telescope, drunk and at play.

Yes on the backs of owls with bloody bills
the very cruel little people came.
It's said that there was much black magic then.
Some say that such darkness shall come again.

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