Supermarkets

Supermarkets seem to think we really all enjoy
The need to find where things have gone, or else they're just being coy
About the places where they've moved the things you always need -
So often hidden at the back and hard to find indeed.
What I would like's for everything to stay in its own place,
So I don't have to waste my time, as round the shop I race
For then I'll know where I can find each thing that I desire,
And won't be tempted on the way by things I don't require.

I must go on a Diet

How did I ever reach the state
Of putting on that extra weight?
I don't think I've been eating more
Of all the treats I so adore.
Nor have I increased the size
Of things I love, like chips and pies.
I hardly snack, or so it feels,
I just have normal healthy meals.
But the weight's gone on and I'm very fussed,
The time has come when I really must
Ensure no further weight gone on,
And all the extra's quickly gone.
So now I'll have to put the brakes
On yummy things like cream-filled cakes;
No more sugar in my tea,
No more sweetened drinks for me.
Smaller meals, with seconds barred
And be always on my guard
Against the nibbles which can add
A host of calories if they're clad
In loads of sugar or of fat -
Or maybe both with things like that.
No more fry-ups, boiled instead,
Reduce the intake of rolls and bread.
Small size portions of pasta and rice,
Even though they're rather nice.
That extra weight's my deadly foe
And it most surely has to go,

Working Hours

I'd like to work from six to two,
For that would  give me time to do
So many things I can't achieve,
While it's impossible to leave
The office before five o'clock,
Which as is obvious puts a block
On everything from two till five,
A time when I am quite alive.
And in winter daylight's passed
When I finish work at last;
So going out is not such fun
As when the night has not begun.
Unfortunately, there are few jobs
Where full-time working never robs
A person of the chance to spend
Their afternoons out with a friend.
Doing what they want to do -
Unfortunate, but usually true.

Hot Summer Days

The weather's getting hotter,-
One expects it in July;
But often I sincerely wish,
Such days would pass me by.

Some people love the sunshine
With its penetrating rays,
And happily would sunbathe
Throughout the summer days.

But others wilt completely,.
Turning lifeless in the heat;
It's an effort keeping going,
And to not admit defeat.

But I long for autumn's coming
When the days are not so warm,
And with summer's passing
Cooler weather is the norm.

I'm Overworked

It really can't be true,
I've still so much to do.
I've hardly made a dent,
Despite the time I've spent,
Hours and hours you know,
Working on the show.
So much keeps coming in,
I'm at a loss where to begin.

The Summer Fayre

The date of the Summer Fayre's been set,
And there's so little time to get
Everything organised once again -
"And let's just hope it doesn't rain!"
Soon many a kitchen is occupied
By ladies who with skill and pride
Are baking cakes of every sort,
For all must be home-made, not bought.
Brownies, sponges and tarts galore,
Lemon drizzle and much, much more.
Then the jams and pickles too
Maybe this year something new.
As well as the little doggie race,
Tombola always has a place,
So prizes wanted, of every kind,
However small, they do not mind.
Books and magazines  take a stall,
Though hardly needing much at all
With all the stock from last year's Fayre,
They've plenty to stock two tables there.
Bri-a-brac  one can be sure
Will every time have much allure,
For everybody likes to feel
They've got a bargain which is real.
Requests of course are always made
For everyone around to raid
Their drawers and cupboards, hoping they
Will bring some items on the day.
Clothing that is secondhand,
Will occupy another stand.
Unwanted gifts, too good to be
With the bric-a-brac, will see
Another stall, set up to sell
New or expensive things as well.
Jewellery has a table too,
And there always are a few
Items there it would appear
In a shop would be quite dear.
Knitted goods will bring in cash,
So there's always a frantic dash
To make as many as they can
And fullfil their yearly plan
To make their stall a huge success
Making more but never less.
Refreshments also have a spot,
Without them the Summer Fayre would not
Be the same, for everyone,
Likes to sit out in the sun
With tea and cake, or maybe lunch,
Pimms or beer or cold fruit punch.
A raffle too's been organised,
With no-one very much surprised
To see the usual prizes there
Whose cost the local shops will bear
Everyone's been working hard,
And hoping it will not be marred
By rainy weather which would spoil
The profits from their ceaseless toil.

Christ Church, Chorleywood

An ancient church, from the look of the stones,
A mixture of grey and off-white tones.
And yet it isn't really old,
Much less than two hundred years I'm told.
Even the tower, the oldest bit,
On which a spire was made to sit,
Despite its looks, still doesn't clear
It's one hundred and eightieth year
The Junction, of course, is very new,
Recently added as Christ Church grew.
The cypress tree gives lots of shade,
With sweeping branches, majestic and staid.
Which almost touch the earth below,
And with each passing year will grow.
Tombstones are scattered all around
Spouting up from grassy ground.
Some are oldish, it is true,
But many others  are quite new.
And there's room for many more,
To be buried there before
The graveyard's full and it's the case,
There is simply no more space.

I Like Being Me

I simply don't want to be something else,
With a different future, a different name,
A different figure, a different voice,
In short, a person who isn't the same.

I like being me and what I am,
A feminine women and not a man,
No pretence that I'm something I'm not,
Just me, as I was when I first began.

The Sausage Dog

A sausage dog - how very sweet!
Merrily trotting down the street.
His little legs must move apace,
Almost as if he were in a race.
But no matter how he tries,
He's always hampered by the size
Of legs which really are so small
They hardly seem like legs at all.
Not for him the greyhound's speed,
Because for that you really need
Proper legs, both big and strong,
Enabling you to race along.

The Gardener

If you love plants, then a good career
Might be as a gardener, for then you'll be near
Something you love throughout all of your hours,
Whether surrounded by shrubs or by flowers.
Opportunities beckon for those who've discerned
Their future as gardeners, and then have learned
All that they can about gardens and plants,
And with their diplomas still don't look askance
At digging and watering, and other hard graft
Which still for a part of a gardener's craft.
But along with the practical side of the role
A qualified gardener has also a shoal
Of interesting things he can now undertake,
Like teaching or writing, or perhaps he can make
A career on TV, where plenty of shows,
Focus on gardens, as everyone knows.
Or maybe head gardener at some wealthy hall
Would see as if working is no work at all.
So whether you like spending hours out of doors,
Digging and planting with hardly a pause,
Or whether your aim is to write or to teach,
There'll always be many a job within reach.
For experts in gardening, who just love to show
The wonderful things that mankind can now grow.

Pollution

The pollution's so high

It's no wonder that I

Am coughing and spluttering all of the time;

There's just so much dust,

I think that I must

Get a Japanese face mask to keep out the grime.

It might make me look

Like a nurse in a book,

But I’m sure that a mask couldn’t possibly fail,

If properly worn,

Not just to adorn,

To rid of pollution the air I inhale.

A Cup of Coffee

A cup of coffee helps the brain to think things clearly through,
It's what you need when sitting there, deciding what to do,
When inspiration's slow to come, you can't think what to write,
And ideas that should freely flow have vanished out of sight,
It's time to put the kettle on, and make steaming cup
Of coffee that will hopefully quite quickly perk you up.

Traffic Wardens

Traffic wardens have to spend their time out on the streets,

Though they rarely are the sort that everybody greets

With cheery smile and knowledge that they're pleased that they are there,

Instead it's much more likely they'll get hatred or despair.

For there is never space enough for all the cars to park,

And that's where traffic wardens for the most part make their mark,

Issuing their tickets to all vehicles that are not

Left there by their owners in the designated spot,

Which isn't in the middle of a very busy road,

Even for a short time while they pick up or unload.

They also issue tickets where the meter isn't fed,

By those who think they have the right to park there free instead.

They also watch for speeding, those who fly along the street,

Forgetting all the danger that they pose to all they pose to all they meet.

Traffic wardens also note old vehicles which are left,

Sitting there for months on end, all lonely and bereft.

Most drivers do not like them, feeling they are there to cause

Never ending trouble by enforcing driving laws.

But if we did not have them there'd be chaos on the roads;

Of double parking everywhere there'd very soon be loads,

Slowing down the traffic so it moved at just a crawl,

Which those who make the most complaints then wouldn't  like at all.

The Cleaning Fairy

Many people would concur,

Given a choice, they would prefer

A fairy came while they were out,

Cleaned the flat and set about

Tidying everything in sight,

So when they returned at night,

Everything would be spic and span,

Thanks to one of the fairy clan.

The Reporter's Job

It's definitely not the job for one

Who want his days to always run

Smoothly and calmly till five o'clock,

The sort of person who loves to mock

Those who work on past their hours,

In whom a creative spirit flowers.

Reporters are people who adore

A varied life, where there is more

To interest them, than there would be

In many other jobs they see.

On any day they can be sent

To cover a story or event;

Whatever the editor happens to feel

That to their readers will appeal.

Bazaars and summer fairs, perhaps,

But also things like the sudden collapse

Of law and order in the street,

As rioters there with policemen meet.

Crime will often form a part

At any local paper's heart.

Reporters need to get around,

Ensuring that they know their ground,

And are aware of what's afoot

So that they can always put

Their copy in, immediately,

The latest news for all to see.

Endless energy has a part

In any good reporter's art,

For often working very late

Is part and parcel of their fate.

Lunches missed - that may well form

A pattern that becomes the norm.

Endless meetings, just in case,

Something of interest shows its face.

Listening to endless tales of woe,

That from individuals flow.

Out and about, come sun or hail,

Good reporters cannot fail

To get the story, just because

The winter weather surely was

A sign to stay in, where warm and dry,

They could just let the hours pass by.

But a job as reporter must entail,

Ignoring all the rain and hail.

If what you want is a peaceful life,

Devoid of any stress or strife,

Then this is not the job for you,

Better find something else to do.

But if variety's what you seek,

A feeling that by the end of the week

Life's been different, life has been fun,

A reporter's job may be just the one.

Now You're Retired

No more deadlines to keep you awake,

Life from now on will be one endless break,

When you can get up and decide what to do,

Enjoy something old, maybe try something new.

A chance for some travelling, get on that train -

You don’t have to think about working again.

Weekends or weekdays, they both are the same,

So lots of long journeys can be in the frame.

Go to the races, enjoy all the fun

Of watching the geegees and seeing them run.

Start on your website, you'll soon get the knack

And once it's online you will never look back.

Retirement's a time for a new life to start,

Where leisure activities play a large part.

A Visiting Mouse

A mouse! A mouse!
Scampering through my house!
This is something new;
Whatever shall I do?
A mouse has not before
Run across my floor.
I'm slightly in a flap -
Shall I set a trap?
I look for all the holes,
Discover there are shoals
Big enough for him,
Since he's rather slim
To have made his way
Through the floor today.
I try to block them up.
Move food so he can't sup,
And hope he's gone for good
For I really, really would
Prefer that he was just
Passing through and must
By now have moved along,
Knowing he was wrong,
To wander through my house
That little, cheeky mouse.

A Welcoming House

A picture hanging on the wall
Of a room or in the hall
Acts just like a glossy book
In giving a house a homely look.
Fresh flowers sitting in a vase,
Pot pourri in open jars,
Make a house feel nice and warm,
A peaceful haven in a storm.

Bad Government

Bad politicians -  it's our fate

That they've got us in this state.

We voted for them - or maybe not,

But anyway, they're what we've got.

And whether or not it was out fault,

We can't avoid the bad result.

Taxes going swiftly up,

Which nothing seems to interrupt,

For the poor, but not the rich,

Whose accountants deftly switch

Their money to an offshore fund -

The state is constantly outgunned

By those whose job it is to hide

Their clients' money far outside

The reach of taxmen everywhere -

Wherever they seek, it won't be there.

While taxes rise most wages don't,

Employers either can't or won't

Increase their workers' weekly pay,

So living standards day by day

Go down for those who are not rich,

Near constantly, without a glitch.

While wages stagnate, prices rise,

Which is surely no surprise.

When government spending is so high

They have no option but to try

And take from those who can't avoid,

Their reach, though they may be devoid

Of means of live and pay the bills

For they have often empty tills,

When business slacks and money's tight,

They feel it really isn't right,

That they should have to pay so much,

While millionaires and other such

Contribute little, if at all,

Whilst they also have the gall

To moan that they are suffering too,

And not receiving all they're due.

A Holiday Afloat

I'd like a holiday afloat,
All aboard a narrow boat,
Slowly chugging on its way,
Letting me enjoy each day
Sitting in the sun on deck,
With nothing I must do but check
That though the canal's fairly wide
I keep my distance from each side.
Just listening to the birds that sing,
The chirpy messages they bring;
Sounds that never could annoy,
Which can only bring great joy.
Passing fields on either side
As through the country farms I glide.
Cows and sheep I'll often see,
Grazing there unhurriedly.
Maybe horses, a goat or two,
Pigs and rabbits, quite a few.
Wild flowers growing on the banks -
Yet another thing that ranks
High on the list of things to note
As I very slowly float
Through the meadows, lush and green,
That typify a country scene.
But this tranquillity must end,
The time will come when I must wend
My way back home, but feeling great,
And in a far more peaceful state

Learning a Foreign Language

A second language - oh what fun,

To start to learn another one.

New sounds for letters to be learnt,

Which looked the same, but really weren't

New rules of grammar that might appear

Far from logical or clear.

Different ways of joining words,

The basic rule that undergirds

Their way of thinking, which may be

One that seems quite strange to me.

So much to learn, but once begun,

I'll keep on till the battle's won,

And after quite some time has passed

I feel quite confident at last

To speak to people, sure that I

In their own language can get by.

Saturdays

No need to get up to go to work,
But still I wake up with a jerk
As eight o'clock comes round again,
The time imprinted on my brain
To rise and dress and make some tea,
With a slice of toast to give to me
The energy needed for work or play
During the hours of the coming day.
After breakfast, the day begins
And I do each job which underpins
The life of one who goes to work,
And also one who cannot shirk
The boring jobs which life entails,
However much my poor mind quails,
At the thought of all the time they take,
From the precious hours when I'm awake.
Shopping for food - that's one on the list,
That definitely never can be missed.
So off to the shops and market too,
To stock up the fridge with something new
The Post Office calls for a visit as well,
The queues can be long - one never can tell.
The newsagents next, and maybe the bank,
For these in addition quite generally rank
Among all the places I have to frequent,
And they tend to add yet another big dent
In the time I have spare for me to pursue
The interesting things that I want to do,
Go to the library  for new books to read
And shopping for anything else that I need.
Spending some time seeing what is now on -
In no time at all, all of Saturday's gone,

A Little Stream through the Woods

A little stream seeking its way through the trees,
Its clear waters trickling wherever they please,
Making full use of each hollow they find,
As down to the nearest big river they wind.
The sand underneath them can clearly be seen,
As often there's just a few inches between
The bottom and top of the the waters which flow
Over the earth and the pebbles below.
No fish swim around in the waters despite
The fact that the stream often has enough height
For them to be there, but in truth they are not,
For this is a stream which has usually got
No permanent life; though in winter it grows
In summer it generally no longer flows.

Letters versus Email

Writing letters today is a bore,
Something one did in the past before
The advent of email, so quick and so cheap,
It really was an enormous leap
Into the future, for suddenly,
Your message arrived near instantly.
No more waiting for days for reply,
As often one did in days gone by;
Instead a quick email, and by return
Nearly always you can learn
The answer to the query sent,
Or if they didn't know what you meant.
No waiting round as in the past,
We've reached the modern stage at last.
Most of the young today would hate
A world in which they had to wait
For days or weeks to link with friends,
To pass on news, to make amends.
Communication has moved on,
The days of letters have now gone,

Dust and Dirt

Cleaning's a job which has to be done
Before the dust and dirt have won,
Trespassing over more and more
Of every available surface and floor.
They creep around while your back is turned,
Your active dislike never makes them feel spurned
Instead they settle wherever they can,
Treating you like an ardent fan.
So it's on with the marigolds as you seek
To send them packing every week.
Removing them with speed and flair,
Before they're noticeable everywhere

Grain Harvest

Fields of grain, all golden brown,
Ready and waiting for mowing down;
Hot, dry weather will rapidly see,
An empty space where there use to be
High waving stalks of ripened grain,
Cut back to just short stems again.
But though the harvest takes its toll
Some of the seed will have a role
In growing the next year's crop of grain,
So all has not been produced in vain.

Roaming Cats

It isn't only dogs that like
To go out for a nice long hike;
Cats as well enjoy to be
Out on the street and walking free.along
Quickly or slowly they patter along,
Pausing if something seems to be wrong.
They sniff the air as if to say
"Who was here before me today?"
Acutely conscious of every scent,
No garden walls will them prevent
From going where their noses lead,
Leaping from fence to fence with speed.
When crossing a road they seem to know
If a car is going fast or slow.
Even when they travel far,
That is never a serious bar
To their returning to their home,
From wherever they choose to roam.

Dining out in the Evening

A nice welcome change from the usual routine

Of lunch in the crowded and noisy canteen,

Then home to cook dinner, which takes quite a time

Even for food that is hardly sublime.

So sometimes it's good to go out for a change

And eat in a restaurant, and sample the range

Of food on the menu, where you can rejoice

In just sitting back and then making your choice

From all the nice dishes that they can produce;

With such a wide range there can be no excuse

For not having something you can't really cook,

Even if shown in a recipe book.

It adds to the evening to eat to the sound

Of soft violin music which wafts all around.

Numerous candles, with flames cream or white

Constantly flickering, spreading their light.

All the time trying and seeking the chance

To give to the restaurant an air of romance,

And after the meal has been finished you know

You're free to get up from the table and go.

No washing up of the pots and the pans,

For that can be left in the kitchen staff's hands.

Walking with a Dog

If you like to go walking a dog is a help,
He'll fly out the door with a bound and a yelp,
Ready to go both by day and at night,
Uncaring to whether it's dark or it's light.
You're never alone with a dog at your side,
Little or big, you can walk him with pride,
Keeping him fit whilst enjoying the walk,
Frequently stopping to smile and to talk,
For dog owners form a quite sociable crowd,
And stopping to chat is not only allowed,
But encouraged, for all have an interest to share,
If they didn't like dogs, then they wouldn't be there.

Rush Hour on the Underground in Summer

Hot, humid weather says summer is here;

The Underground's horrid; fellow travellers so near

They're toughing your back and your front and your sides,

Which every long-suffering traveller derides.

The air in the carriage has more than a whiff,

Of stale human sweat which would certainly miff,

Any person expected elsewhere to endure

For ages a scent with so little allure.

The heat is a nightmare; it's quite safe to bet,

You'll soon be awash with large droplets of sweat,

Which course down your face after wetting your hair,

Something that people should not have to bear.

Standing is tiring; you'd like to site down,

But seats are so few, and you see with a frown,

All have been taken by those who got on

At earlier stops, for they are soon gone.

You long for the time when at last you arrive;

You're hot and you're sticky and ready to dive,

Out of the carriage and breathe the fresh air.

You start to feel better again when you're  there.

Community Centres

Community centres are very important,
Providing a place which the people can call
Their own, which they can make use of themselves,
But also re open for use by them all.
Whether it's clubs for the old and the lonely,
Or mothers and toddlers who want to get out,
From artwork and beading to yoga and zen,
Is what a community centre's about.
They should be in use fort as much time as possible,
The kitchen equipped with big ovens and sinks,
Designed to provide at the least a small cafe,
Offering a wide range of nice food and drinks.
Thus they can serve as a focus for people
To come and enjoy themselves, confident that
There's sure to be something they'd like to pursue there
Even if all that they want is a chat.

A Time to Think

I love to sit in the woods alone,
Perched on a tree trunk, or maybe a stone.
Lost for a time with just thoughts for my friends,
I ponder within all the latest trends
That are shaping my life, and where it should go;
Ideas bounce constantly to and fro.
The only sounds are the chirping of birds
And the rustle of leaves; no human words
Disturb the stillness and quiet and peace,
Of a time I hope will never cease
To be of importance, to think and pray,
Preparing my life for another day.

Head Scarves

Some people think it really is a sin

For girls to show their hair; it must be all tucked in

Behind a scarf, which may be bright and bold,

Enhanced with many a lacy drape and fold.

Though they may not show a strand of hair,

In donning their scarves they always take great care,

Modelling them with much aplomb and passion,

Ensuring that they're always right in fashion.

Caves

Deep hollowed caverns stretching under ground,
An eerie place where every simple sound
Reverberates throughout the whole expanse
Of empty space, if given any chance.
A tiny tap can be a thing of wonder,
Sounding like a mighty roar of thunder
Spreading out around that empty space,
Before it disappears without a trace.

The Giver

Her life spreads around her a lightness of touch,
The outlook of someone who doesn't care much
For money and all that it's presence can bring;
For her living rightly is always the thing
Which features most proudly in all of her ways,
Completely entwined in her life all her days.
She's happy to live with no thought of being rich;
Unneeded possessions she'll happily ditch
Her ultimate goal on this earth is to live
As someone whose aim's not to take but to give.

My Hair

My hair is in a dizzy mess, it wants to fly away;

No matter how I comb it down, it simply will not stay.

The slightest breeze and up it flies, and covers all my face;

It often seems on windy days that we are in a race

To see if I can push it back more quickly than it flies

Up and down and everywhere, getting in my eyes.

Although I like the longer length, I sometimes feel I ought

To take the plunge and change my style and wear it very short.

Waiting for a Bus

I stand and wait in the freezing cold,
Awaiting the bus which I've been told
Runs to a timetable, twice and hour;
Shivering badly I try to cower
Behind some shelter, out of the gale,
Which though I'm well-wrapped still doesn't fail,
To slips through my clothes with an excess of zeal,
Reaching my skin and so making me feel
As if I am turning most surely to ice,
Which certainly, definitely, just isn't nice.
Eventually after a long time has passed,
My wait's at an end, as the bus comes at last.

Running

Running, they say's a good way to keep fit;
It   doesn't cost money, nor need special kit;
All that's required is a good pair of shoes,
The comfortable sort that you'd normally use
When walking in fields or on uneven ground,
Which cannot fall off when you're moving around.
Running brings pleasure; you soon start to feel
Your life's taken on just a little more zeal;
And when you are tired and in need of a rest,
The day seems imbued with a certain new zest.

Delicatessens

Delicious smells waft through the air,

Telling passersby what's there;

Rows of cheeses, yellow and white,

Make a most enticing sight;

Bowls of pesto, humous too,

Every week there's something new;

Samosas, quiches, all home-made,

And neatly on the counter laid;

Salami, olives, tasty dips,

All just waiting to pass your lips;

Fancy breads, with some still hot,

Along with all the rest they've got;

Pickles, chutneys, all own brand,

Can equal the best ones in the land;

Of course you need pockets slightly deep,

For nothing here is really cheap;

But if you're looking for food that's good,

Should you buy there?  Yes, you should.

A Broken Wrist

A broken wrist!  How very sad!
But I know that you'll be glad
To hear that it will not be long,
Before again it's fit and strong.

But while you have it in a cast,
Remember that this state won't last,
And you don't need to be afraid,
As an invalid, to ask for aid.

Subjects for Drawing

When out with my sketchpad, my pencils and pens,
What I will draw nearly always depends
On what I can see, whether close by or far,
For out in the country there generally are
A host of new subjects just waiting for me
To put down on paper the image I see.
Flowers in the meadows, right next to my feet,
The haze in the distance brought forth by the heat;
And everything else which is laid out between
The distant pale sky and the near grassy green.
Trees with their foliage blocking the view,
Their thick leaves examples of every green hue;
Birds in the sky in a group flying past,
Hoping to reach their new quarters at last;
Bright pools of water, surrounded by reeds,
Where many a wildfowl swims idly and feeds;
Bluebells galore peeping forth in the woods,
Or maybe some acorns with little brown hoods;
Cows lying quietly while chewing the cud,
Worms wriggling quickly in patches of mud;
Whatever it is, it's a subject to draw;
Wherever I will always find more.

Street Festivals

Street festivals are just the thing
For everyone who hopes to bring
People together in work and joy
To build up rather than destroy.
For they can be the means to make
People come out and thus forsake
Their own little world; for a festival lends
The chance to meet and make new friends;
The chance to work as part of a team;
For many people this would seem
All they need to get to know
Their neighbours, and through that to grow
A little closer to those around,
Helping fellowship abound.

Climate Change

In the sixties we were threatened with an ice age on the way,

A time when every winter would be very long and grey;

The future would be chilly, so we were led to think,

With Icebergs in the Channel and the Thames a skating rink.

We really would face problems, due to rapid climate change,

And how we coped with winter we would need to re-arrange,

For we'd be like the Arctic, with endless ice and snow,

Coupled with the bitter winds which from the east would blow.

Life in winter would be hard, and quite expensive too,

With spending months in warmer climes the privilege of the few.

The rest of us would have to live and cope as best we could,

And thinking back to better times would not do any good.

But, of course, they got it wrong. the ice age didn't come,

And those who then predicted it would now appear quite dumb.

But then another group appeared, and said the earth was faced

With rapid warming, using words that were doom-laden laced.

The lushest fields of England would in quite short time be changed

As brightest green for dried-up brown each summer was exchanged.

In Kent we'd soon be growing all the fruits we now import,

Exotic things from round the world - or so we all were taught.

We had a massive problem, as the earth was heating fast;

The ice cap was now melting and would soon be in the past.

The future looked quite bleak indeed, with deserts everywhere,

Vast tracts of land which would become completely dry and bare.

It was the fault of man, they said; we needed to reduce

The cutting down of forest trees, and much restrict the use

Of fossil fuels and chemicals which they proclaimed in fear

Were causing all the ozone round the earth to disappear.

We really were in trouble, unless we made amends,

And followed them and heeded all the latest published trends.

But change again was on the way, for suddenly it seemed,

That global warming now had stalled, and was no longer deemed

The threat it had been; now they talked instead of climate change,

Which after both the former scares might well seem rather strange,

Especially as they claimed it still was principally man-made,

So former calls to spend vast sums most certainly didn't fade.

The truth is that our climate's never static, and it shows

A face that's always changing, just like the wind that blows,

There's nothing that mankind can do, no way that he can act,

Which can make a difference or can change this simple fact.

Fields of Buttercups

Fields flecked with yellow - it's buttercup time,
And all the lush meadows are right in their prime,
With sweet yellow flowers, that are everywhere peeping
Up in the grass, from their winter-time sleeping.
The fields look so friendly, all yellow and green,
A typical, peaceful and bright country scene.

Football

Why do men like football, and never seem to tire
Of watching and re-watching games that seem so dire?
The players may be skilful, and I'm sure that many are
But I can think of many things more interesting by far
Than watching several youthful men kick a ball around,
Cheered on by thousands of their fans at every football ground.
Are they mesmerised by hype, within its tendrils caught,
Ensnared by all the endless news which makes them feel they ought
To follow all the ins and outs of every football game,
Even though to most non-fans each one is much the same.
Football's now big business, and one to which money streams,
Rather than a friendly game that's played by local teams
To bring enjoyment to their fans, and joy to those involved,
Making where to take the boys a problem that soon solved.
But instead it spans the world, with players bought and sold
A place where greed and money, has long since taken hold.

Quizzes

A table of six, slightly apart,

With paper and pen, all ready to start;

Sat close together, so they can discuss

The answers to questions without any fuss.

The topics are varied, with seven in each,

So plenty to stretch all those aiming to reach

The best score among all the teams in the face,

To take home the prize that accrues to first place.

Many hushed tones of whispering filling the air,

As each question brings forth its presence to bear

On the minds of the players, who might well confess

Their answers are really no more than a guess.

The time comes to finish; the totals are checked,

The chances of all but just one team are wrecked,

For they get the prize, whether generous or small,

For in quizzes it's usual the winner takes all.

The Passing of the Year

The days are quickly passing, as the year proceeds along,
Moving on to springtime, from winter's dismal song;
The nights are getting shorter now that April has arrived,
And it is several weeks now since the temperature last dived
To levels that would indicate in tones both loud and clear,
That though the days were passing winter weather was still here.
The gentle sun of springtime, with the usual springtime showers,
Brings forth in woodlands everywhere the bursting out of flowers.
Come June and spring stands back once more, making way to greet
The coming of the summer, with humidity and heat.
The grassy fields turn dry and brown; they suffer from lack of rain,
Until the autumn showers appear to quench their thirst again.
Autumn is a time of change, most trees then shed their leaves;
Helped by many an autumn gale which through their branches weaves.
Then autumn turns to winter, with its cold and ice and snow,
A time for hibernation, when most things cease to grow,
Until again the springtime comes,and with it all the earth
With joy looks forward once again to all it brings to birth.

My Email's on Strike

I've problems with my email,
It's taking time off work;
It should be slaving all the time
And never try to shirk.

But something's made it go on strike,
Which leaves me feeling cross;
It's really got to understand
It's me who is the boss.

The Cat in Front of the Fire

The cat is curled up at my feet,
A bundle of fur, so soft and sweet;
Lying there, it's easy to see
She loves the fire as much as me.

Contented purring fills the air,
Ensuring that I know she's there,
Even though she's sound asleep.
Curled in a little golden heap.

Library Closures

They want to close our libraries down -
How foolish can they get?
For that's the most short-sighted thing,
That they have thought of yet.
Instead of closure they should think
Of how they could expand;
For surely it's not much to ask,
That they should understand
The vital role that libraries have
In passing knowledge on,
And once they're closed, the books sold off,
That role's forever gone.
So add computers, study rooms,
Talks and lectures too,
Activities for young and old,
And see them grow anew.