A Perfect Gent

He was a perfect gent,
Who having thus been lent,
This, Oh such precious key,
With which to view a property,
Which he hoped she might like to buy.
She'd deemed him a lovely guy.

He was a perfect gent,
Who seemed to be intent,
On making so sure that she,
Felt absolutely free,
To look around the place,
And, perhaps, consider it her base.

He was a perfect gent,
Who seemed to be content,
To follow just behind
Her, whilst she was thus inclined,
To take her time to survey,
Each room along the way.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Dedicated Fishermen

The lads, Sid, Fred, Frank and Len,
Are four dedicated fishermen,
Telling stories of their latest bite,
They'd sometimes talk right through the night,
About the 'big one' that got away,
Which was to everybody's great dismay.
These gentlemen, would then debate,
About different hooks and various bait.

They'd talk of hours spent on sandbanks,
How the lastest catch, had been or course, Frank's,
Searching for cod, sea bass and salmon,
Whilst eating sandwiches filled with gammon,
And drinking cups of tomato soup,
They'd sit there with a 'shoulder' stoop,
And contemplating about the weather,
Their spirits would feel as light as a feather.

The day could be long, but there was always the sun,
And peace and quiet, when 'all's said and done',

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Crystal Clear

Moss covered stones line the river’s edge,
thus there is no need to dredge.
Water’s flowing swiftly on its way,
for it cannot ever stay.
A prying vole peeps, sussing the scene,
with his nose alert and keen.
He ventures forth to forage about,
far from his discreet hideout.
But shy is he, when disturbed he’ll flee.
sanctioning no scrutiny.

I see insects, they all please the eyes,
ladybirds and butterflies.
Swarms of gnats gyrate and pirouette,
above playful ripples, wet.
May flies hover in the warming sun,
as their forerunners have done.
Buzzing bees searching for nectar new,
among the wild flowers, pursue.
Grasshoppers jumping around my feet,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Shallows, Crystal Clear

Moss covered stones line the river’s edge,
thus there is no need to dredge.
Water’s flowing swiftly on its way,
for it cannot ever stay.
A prying vole peeps, sussing the scene,
with his nose alert and keen.
He ventures forth to forage about,
far from his discreet hideout.
But shy is he, when disturbed he’ll flee.
sanctioning no scrutiny.

I see insects, they all please the eyes,
ladybirds and butterflies.
Swarms of gnats gyrate and pirouette,
above playful ripples, wet.
May flies hover in the warming sun,
as their forerunners have done.
Buzzing bees searching for nectar new,
among the wild flowers, pursue.
Grasshoppers jumping around my feet,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Tomorrow's Won

Rooftops all glowing rosy in the sun,
Beyond them can be found the sparkling sea.
The day ahead has only just begun,
And dawn is lighting up the scenery.

Birds sing merrily in whispering trees,
A lovely sound to welcome in the day.
And as the hours pass slowly by degrees,
The time spent is not wasted in any way.

For everything is there for us to view,
Each a beautiful object in itself.
Ideas by their creator, which then grew,
Not left to sit dust-covered on a shelf.

Buildings, landscapes, people and so much more,
There to be observed, right within our sight,
Plenty for all who wish to thus explore,
Our earth during the moments of daylight.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Face Of Christ

It stood alone, this old Church of grey,
tombstones scattered around in disarray.
Naming Squires and skivvies who’d lived and died
in this Hamlet, and now lay side by side.

Within, sun shafts sneak between the pews,
onto needlepoint hassocks, sewn in blues.
And as my feet slowly creep down the aisle,
the fair face of Christ on me doth smile.

From a stained glass window, arms raised, to bless
those, who find their way to this address.
He’s in radiant garments of colours bright
looking new and fresh still, in the day’s sunlight.

I see fading flowers, vases all needing renewal,
a rickety boiler, but minus its fuel.
Worn Altar cloth, of once Royal hues,
and by the door the week’s Parish News.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Hope For Heaven

Grey church sits lonely on the hill,
Awaiting its next Sunday thrill.
Voices rising up to the spire,
Kept in tune by the local choir.
Regulars that every week,
Enter the door the Lord to seek.

Its rural town’s a busy place,
Harbouring a mixed human race.
On the seventh day most sleep late,
Don’t venture through the old lychgate.
They think about the open shops
And whether lunch requires pork chops.

The bells ring out, the faithful meet,
For some it is their only treat.
They catch up on the parish news,
And who will this week, clean the pews.
Then wander home their minds refreshed,
By words spoken when they were blessed.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Brave Crusaders

They all want to try and change this World,
They are young and full of great ideas,
They think they have all the answers too,
They feel just like the heroic Musketeers.
But gradually, in time, they tend to find,
These plans have been badly left undone,
And so many people, who have gone before,
Have tried, but not one single soul has won.
For history will invariably follow history,
And conflicts everywhere will never change,
Always the hate, always wars and slaughter,
It's nothing new, remarkable or strange.

They all want to try and change this World,
This time they say, 'now we will show you how',
But with dissolution, a stream of brave crusaders,
Will come and stand and sadly take their bow.
Each creative and imaginative proud scholar,
However keen he may be in himself,
Will never find the solution or the answer,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Race For Life

We ventured out, into the local park,
Where 'The Race for Life' would take place.
The drizzle started, clouds were dark,
And there was very little space.

Thousands of people were arriving,
To run this great three mile event,
For those who had died, and those surviving
Cancer. It was a time so well spent.

They were raising funds to find a cure,
To cleanse the world of this affliction,
One day, you can be very sure,
They will find it. That is a conviction.

The atmosphere was positive and cheery,
Even though heavy downpours came,
And when they reached the finish and weary,
Each had their own claim to fame.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Budding Ballerina

I was once a 'budding' ballerina,
With all the right outfits to wear,
There never was anyone keener,
I had point shoes and tutus to spare.

I was four and a half when I started,
Even remember my first big exam,
It's funny how some things just stick in your head,
I had to go in by myself, and leave Mam.

We'd practice so hard for our teacher,
Sometimes four or five times a week,
And although she was a bit of a preacher,
From us all, sheer perfection she'd seek.

At eleven, I travelled to London,
And danced in the Royal Albert Hall,
In the massive arena, we were called upon,
To perform. We hoped no one would fall.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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