Notions Abound

So swift the evening’s descended,
Grey skies turn to black.
Once more the long day has ended,
My head hit’s the sack
Waves of fatigue overwhelm me,
Eyelids close and stay,
Calmness is making me drowsy,
Soft thoughts start to play.

But sleep’s far off in the distance,
Dreams are not to be.
Night gives no kind of assistance,
Slumber seems to flee.
The brain is over attentive,
Thoughts spinning around.
My mind is now so inventive,
That notions abound.

Some more early nights are needed,
For I’m overtired.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Getting Away

The sea, the sun, the sand and the surf,
The views, the dunes, the cliffs and the turf,
The peace, the calm, the rest and the play,
The delights and the pleasures of just getting away.
The suspense, the excitement, the expectation and the thrill,
A holiday you've chosen of your own freewill.

The journey, the jokes, the jalopy and the jams,
The scenes, the valleys, the hillsides and the dams,
The dates, the location, the venue and the place,
The packing and the lugging of an over packed suitcase.
The restaurants, the cafes, the menus and the wines,
A holiday that's chosen for it's beautiful coastlines.

The reversal, the reluctance, the returning and the rain,
The sadness, the leaving, the glumness and migraine,
The routine, the office, the stress and the low pay,
The memories and the highlights of a happy hideaway.
The searching, the saving, the booking and the price,
A holiday is chosen for next year, to be precise!

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Just A Wish

Whisk me away on a holiday,
Give me a chance to get away,
From all the stuffy, set routine,
Of work and chores at home, like clean,
The floors, window panes and sills,
Suck up the dust and wipe up the spills,
Change the beds, and prepare the meals.
Phew! totally exhausted is how one feels.

Can't there be a magic wand,
To wave and find that I'm beyond,
The horizon, where a different scene,
Awaits, somewhere I've never been,
That really would be such a pleasure,
A bonus, a time that I could treasure,
Somewhere to 'wind down' and 'relax' a while,
Maybe take a steamboat down the Nile.

Now I wouldn't want to journey alone,
Meeting people that I've never known.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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To Our Delight

I snapped a twig beneath my shoe,
and a startled bird flew o’er my head.
Crisp leaves were sprinkled on their tops with dew,
coloured, each one, in an autumnal hue,
and thickly spread.

Across the park, beneath the trees,
helped by the breeze, they’d descended down.
Carpeting the ground with a cushioned layer.
A splendid scene of such impressive flair,
in shades of brown.

A squirrel always so alert,
stood, rigid, inert and listened hard.
Then with an impish look made fast retreat,
by scuttling off, his tasty nuts to eat,
but still on guard.

Silence fell, no sound pierced the ear,
nothing to hear, quiet peace serene.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Intrepid Me

I donned the boots with shining blades,
And tottered to the rink,
And as I stepped onto the ice,
My heart began to sink.
How was I, to stay vertical,
On this metal edge so thin,
I felt my legs were giving way,
And my head was in a spin.

I staggered forth, intrepid me,
And toppled straight away.
I tried to rise with dignity,
But my feet would not obey.
I'll never do a figure eight,
Or a treble what's its name,
My only time trying to skate,
Will have no claim to fame.

How slippery this sport, making
One tremble at the knees.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Three-Legged Race

I've been entered in a three-legged race,
And somehow, I'm tied up to Jane,
Oh goodness me, Oh, No! No! No! ,
She's fallen down again.

The handkerchief's tied up far too tight,
Now it's really cutting into my ankle, .
I've tried to release it, with all of my might,
But now it's beginning to rankle.

Oops! Oh Lor! She's now keeling over,
She'll never be steady at this game,
At least she has fallen onto the clover,
Ouch! That was a real shocking pain!

We are wobbling off across the lawn,
But certainly not running as 'one',
I've a feeling that my ligament's been torn
This cannot possibly be rated as fun.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Slug's Life

I met a young slug, who gave me a shrug,
And said that his life, was so full of strife,
He'd wandered around, no 'she' slug had he found,
He so wanted to find, someone who was kind.

Setting off in haste, he had no time to waste,
And slithered into, a flowerbed venue.
He saw her right there, Oh my, did he care,
Such charm on display, his love he'd convey.

Into petals she crawled, and he was enthralled,
He followed in a dream, mesmerized it would seem,
As coy as could be, she asked him to tea,
And enjoyed toast and jam, and also some spam.

He then met her Dad, who liked her new lad,
And gave his consent, so they were content,
To wait for the day, when their vows they would say.
He was certainly not subfusc, but an excited mollusc.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Sun And Rain And Seed

The distance calls.
Hedges and dry stone walls
On hillsides, flocks of sheep.
Rough cliffs high, valleys deep.
One stretched out patchwork quilt,
Time formed, from rocks and silt.
Our planet’s richness shown,
Under the sky’s ozone.

The distance calls.
Even through heavy squalls,
The wind, the trees reshape,
Mists falling like a cape.
Weathered timber barns,
Mountains, vales and tarns.
All grace this pleasant earth,
Prized beauty of such worth.

The distance calls.
Swift rivers, waterfalls

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Furnished And Burnished

My feet beat a rhythm across the Shopping Arcade floors,
and in through the swinging doors.
Up speeding lifts, to counters packed with attractive goods
and gifts.

Now, making straight for the place where there is glamour
for the face, one spies lipsticks by the score, so many
shades that one cannot but adore.
I must buy more.

That concealing blemish cream which smoothes on like a dream,
Is a must. They still stock it, I trust.

Eyebrow pencil in colour ‘blonde’, which just has to be donned,
and mascara in black.
I think I’m on the right track.

Some shadow for the eyes too, in gold, brown, silver, or blue.
It’s so reflective and so effective.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Glitter And The Gloss

Do we really bother to celebrate Christmas as we should,
Thanking God for all his wondrous gifts.
Or do we scour and scan all those departmental stores,
Turning us into mad, frenzied spendthrifts.

Do we really link with him at Christmas, is it real,
Or is it just the superficial glitz,
Eating too much turkey and drinking too much wine,
As if it were the last meal at the Ritz.

No decorations there for him, just one bright shining star,
A basic stable for his lowly birth,
Do we really appreciate the glitter and the gloss,
When we should really treasure his true worth.

Perhaps our Christmases have now become extravagant,
A bit obscene, false happiness to buy,
Can we not see the very reason he was born,
And believe in him, just like the wise Magi.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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