The Barn at Willoughby's Farm
I have this recurring nightmare where
I'm wandering round a farm,
It's out in the middle of nowhere, just
A milking shed and a barn,
An ancient tractor sits by the house
But the blinds are pulled and drawn,
And it seems that the farmer left this place
Before Jacinth was born.
But ever I see her stand and wave
As she climbed aboard the bus,
Off for a life of adventure, not
Stuck here, like one of us,
She'd always wanted the country life
Away from the city's swell,
The day that she waved goodbye to us
Was my first real glimpse of hell!
‘Once I've settled, I'll write, ' she said,
‘Or else, there's always the phone;
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Picnic in the Wood
It was Sunday, after vespers
In the town of Montauban,
Where the Seminary Deacons walked
Along the tree-lined strand,
While two girls were sipping latté
At the Café Belle Amie,
Watching all the black-robed brothers
As they passed, but covertly!
‘Don't you think he's very handsome? '
Sighed the girl called Mirabel,
As the brother Michael passed them,
Turned his head, and gave a smile,
While Georgette had sat and giggled,
Put her hand up to her mouth:
‘Don't you think it's rather wicked,
Tempting priests to break a vow! '
Mirabel had raised an eyebrow
And stared archly at her friend,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Book of Van den Braak
I stared at the book on the table
Where it lay on the weathered oak,
The cover so black and tarnished,
Tanned in leather through coils of smoke,
Its ancient layers had long been carved
As petals of some grim flower,
Where an evil mildew spread its mould
From the walls of that ancient tower.
The book was set like an altar piece
In that ancient, flagstoned hall,
Catching the feeble rays of light
Through cracks in the old stone wall,
I hastened to look away, but yet
It gripped me in its glare,
Like some old German Grimoire...
Though no title page was there!
I reached for the cover and opened it,
The leather creaked with age,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Boneyard
On the thirteenth day of the seventh month
Big Max came into town,
He came with a clutch of plans, he said,
We'd be ‘mad to turn him down! '
He walked right into the council
And he huddled up with the mayor,
The mayor could only see dollar signs
As he sat him down in his chair!
We're just a common old country town,
There's not much happens here,
The town grew up around farmers,
Pioneers of yesteryear!
There's shops and government offices,
A bank and a couple of pubs,
And the highlight of the weekend whirl
Is a night at the social clubs!
We also have two cemeteries,
The ‘Old' one and the ‘New',
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Endless Taxi
I staggered out the Monkey Ba
At three... or was it four?
I'd lost my watch and wallet there,
I'd not been there before,
But after drinks or three, I think
I wasn't seeing straight,
I only knew I'd smoked my last
So knew it must be late.
I searched my pockets, plumbed the depths
And found a crumpled note,
A twenty kwai had ‘scaped my eye,
Thank god for kindly fate!
I had a choice of yi bao yan,
A pack of Xinanjiang,
Or I could grab a ‘jiao che' home
At a cost of shi yuan!
I chose the smokes, and spent the ten,
That left me ten to go,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Demon Horse On The Carousel
The trucks came in with the travelling show
To the heart of our western town,
They set their tents in the twilight glow
And circled the wagons round,
While we, the boys of the neighbourhood
Were watching with minds alight,
The girls in the pearl bikini’s
Who would brave the trapeze that night!
The light sprang out of a million bulbs
In yellow and pink and green,
Lighting the booths of the grinning clowns
That you rolled a ball between,
A Carny carolled, ‘A Penny a shy! ’
And leered, with his gold-capped teeth,
Like a hungry shark at the fattest Mark,
But with eyes of a petty thief!
And then the music began to stir
Like a grind from an organ song,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Black Gold
The Dad was dour, his face was sour
When he came home from the pit,
He looked like a furnace stoker but
That wasn't the half of it…
His fists were like a couple of hams
And he used the blighters, too,
The Mam would hear his foot on the step
And hurry to serve his stew.
She wore his bruises over her face,
Her arms and her legs and more,
I'd seen her body all over then
For I was coming-up four,
I'd watched the blood run down her leg
As she cleaned herself with a rag,
Whenever he'd come home roaring drunk,
Use Mam as a punching bag!
My sister Else was barely ten
When he made her work at the pit,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Kurdaitcha Tree
Out where the land lies in silence
And whispers it,
Where the sun burns on white skin
'Til it blisters it,
There the earth turns in the Dreamtime
Of Everland,
Bush turns to sand, and dry creek beds
In Neverland.
There lies a farm that has fought
And has weathered it,
Two hundred years, generations have
Gathered it,
Some say their harvest is naught
But a miracle,
Reaping where nothing grows, so
Says the Oracle.
Just enough rainfall to turn
Away famine,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Woman of Stone
I saw her first by the apple tree
Where she picked the ripe red fruit,
Her auburn hair in a twisted coil
And a crinoline to suit,
I saw her eyes as she turned to me
Two azure pools, afloat;
But they didn't hazard a glance at me,
Not even a single glance at me,
She didn't venture a glance at me
As my song died in my throat!
I lost control of my heart that day
I could neither eat nor drink,
Though I felt my substance fade away
I was too confused to think,
And a fever took me, by and by,
I took to my bed, a week,
But she never came to visit me,
Not even a thought to visit me,
I'd have given the earth to visit me
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Spitfire
‘Scramble! '
‘Take the lead, Blue Leader, '
Spat the voice on the R/T,
While the ground crew pulled the chocks
Another plugged the battery,
Then the prop was turning over
And the Merlin roared to life
As the pilot, Michael Adams,
Kissed the picture of his wife!
They had only just been married
On a sudden 36,
They had just one night together
Then raced back to face the blitz,
She to work the board, the plotter,
He to fly, and do his best,
There were twelve of them together
Flying over Sheerness!
There were Dorniers and Junkers
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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