The Sunbeam

A shaft of orange sunlight, new issue from our star,

Sought out a place to rest awhile, for it had travelled far.

Amidst the sprawling fields and hills, a house stood quite alone,

With bright red shutters open wide, midst light grey weathered stone.

The sunbeam, young and curious, was eager to explore.

It sped towards a casement, above an old oak door.

Its rays flowed through the dusty glass, surveyed the tiny room.

A maiden lay on floral down, a morning flower in bloom.

Her covering was a light blue gown of finest silken thread.

A pillow of the purest white, so gently held her head.

Her unkempt hair cascaded down, impromptu and untamed.

Her hands wrapped lightly round her knees, a painting still unframed.

It gazed in wonder as she slept; breathed in her sweet bouquet,

But then a cooling breeze passed through, caressed but did not stay.

She shuddered, reaching for the quilt, to fight the sudden cold.

The sunbeam quickly covered her with rays of glistening gold.

A grateful murmur passed her lips; she smiled while still asleep.

Though time demanded that it leave, sweet memory it would keep.

It left the scene and she awoke to feel such warmth within,

She now possessed the strength to face, whatever fate would bring.

The open window beckoned her; she rose to greet the morn,

And sensed her hopes would be fulfilled, that new life she would spawn.

Just then a ray of sunlight, with a strange and orange glow,

Shone on her fulsome beauty. “I know!” she said, “I know!”

Come back Mr Kipling....!!

Now Rudyard Kipling wrote about the wonders of the Raj;

What would he think of us today if he were still at large?

When Royal Navy personnel on speed-boat spy excursions,

Are hijacked in the light of day by gun-boat toting Persians.

And what about our cricket team - just hopeless you’ll agree.

They can’t hold catches or their drink and end up all at sea.

And who is it that beats us, to teach us how to play?

Those countries once of Empire, from Sydney to Bombay.

One thing he’d notice hasn’t changed, though many years have passed,

Tommy Atkins is still alive and fighting to the last.

A plea then Mr Kipling, once more pick up your pen.

Arouse the pride and spirit of good honest English men.

Don’t count the cost, the problems, we’ll pay you what it takes.

I’m sure you’ll find it more worthwhile than those ‘exceedingly good cakes!’

Too much, Too Soon!

I’m going to tell you a strange little tale;

One end of me is female, and the other end male!

What lies in between must flex, yet be firm,

And stretched so each end can be pushed in in turn.

Now most of the time we just lie here and try

To avoid being mixed up with others nearby.

Then up comes the master to take over control.

He presses a button and we’re all set to roll!

A power surge pulsates from one end to the next;

It’s all systems go as each muscle is flexed.

But wait! Through the window black clouds hover near.

We are in for a storm and a big one I fear!

I call to the master to take action and quick.

Pull out all the ends – trip the switch with a flick!

But he doesn’t take notice or perhaps doesn’t hear,

Cos the lightning struck twice and the cost was quite dear.

My female end can be turned on no more,

And as for the male – well that’s frizzled for sure.

So each time you press for the TV to start –

Just spare a quick thought for this burnt out old scart!