Milking Time
Across the fields, at close of day,
When mists fall low, and the skies are grey,
The cows with solemn slowness plod,
Homeward, through oozing, squelching sod,
And into gleaming cubicles across the road,
Await the release of their 'precious' load.
Of course, they cannot have realised,
That their'contents' end up being sterilised,
Sold in plastic bottles of varying sizes,
Or in cartons on which a firm advertises
The healthy benefits of natural milk.
Which slips down the throat, as smooth as silk.
Cows are the most beautiful creatures,
Have you, at any time, studied their features,
Their huge big eyes with lashes flattering,
And lusty tails, that are constantly battering
Their rear ends, keeping the flies at bay.
My admiration for them, I would like to convey.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Torquay
The tide is now far out of reach, of the beach,
And so there are miles of sand, a sight so grand,
A lighthouse takes a stand, long time unmanned,
While seagulls veer and fly inland, up the strand.
Boats are following the tide, and smoothly glide,
And salty winds beat the distant waves, to the caves.
And I sit here on weathered rocks, without my socks,
Looking out across the sea, in a warm Torquay.
Along the curving promenade, the Med's displayed,
With luscious palms of green, which set the scene.
And rising up behind the bay, a strange jumbled array,
Of holiday apartments, most are let, with a kitchenette.
Here with their lists of guarantees, row's of neat, clean B & B's
Are waiting for rooms to be vacated, ready for those awaited,
With no fixed times for meals, for that is what appeals
To the weekly and fortnightly partakers, and early wakers.
And here I am dangling my toes, and writing some prose.
A better life than this, could not exist, it is sheer bliss.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Inky Night
How really eerie becomes the inky night,
Which street lights illuminate with pitiful glow,
Revealing alien shadows in swift flight,
And ghostly noises that echo 'in vacuo'.
Night gradually darkens all this world of ours,
Silence reigns, except for nature's cries,
The elements engage us, with their salient power,
And far flung stars sit quietly in the skies.
Whistling winds, down alleys, wing their way,
Hats fly off, and umbrellas invert with ease,
On pavements, the homeless, with nowhere to stay,
Curl up in cardboard boxes, and slowly freeze.
Between those hours of sunset and the dawn,
A fox sneaks out in search of needed fare,
To hunt until the awakening of the morn,
Returning thence, to cubs within her lair.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Little Chimney Sweep - Victorian Times
What is above all these chimneys, I asked the young lad,
The chimney sweep boy replied,
Why Sir, it's the sky which is sometimes so blue,
That when I look up and glance at the view,
Such glory cannot be denied.
What lies in that sky then, I asked the young lad,
The boy gazing up now replied,
Oh Sir, clouds and sunshine, at night moon and stars,
Planets like Jupiter, Saturn and Mars,
What wonders out there can be spied?
Is your work very unbearable, I asked the young lad,
Most times Sir, it is, he replied,
From dawn until dusk, I'm climbing to sweep,
The soot from the chimneys, for my food and my keep,
My Master cannot be defied.
Do you 'welcome' the sky, I asked the young lad,
When I'm climbing, I do, he replied,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Replenishing The Mind
The hills, some ploughed brown, come undulating down, framed by verdant green hedges,
forming the edges, where flocks of crows squawking, are already stalking the tractor.
It’s seen, moving along the tracks in-between the fields neatly sown with wheat to be grown.
After stopping to heap, some food for the sheep that range o’er the fells,
and fresh fertile dells,
its occupant gazes stock-still, in this place so tranquil.
A sheepdog circles around, then on command goes to ground,
as the farmer shuts the gate, on the space they both vacate.
It’s their time to return for tea, or a glass of cool shandy and relax,
and so unwind, thus replenishing the mind.
The countryside then lies at rest, and there on the crest of a ridge, owls glide,
now that it’s eventide.
These creatures in flight, are a wonderful sight as the moon sends its beams,
on such fabulous scenes.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Observation
I observed you from across the room
Smiling in your supercilious way,
Demanding attention from all around you.
You had to be the centre of attraction, as usual,
Oblivious of how you demeaned other people.
Your only thought was to 'glow' like a 100 watt light bulb,
Casting everyone else into the shadows.
You are not real, really are you,
Just a 'body' honed to perfection,
A robot, reacting to signals from your brain,
To charm, to show off and pose.
Suppose it all came to an end,
And you shrivelled and disintegrated into a pool of liquid
Or a pile of ash,
A bit like a 'Toon' from 'Roger Rabbit'
Melting perhaps into the ground,
Or being blown away by the wind.
What a realization that would be,
All your glamour gone.
I studied you from across the room and I realised
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Men Can't Say Please
Why is it that a man somehow, just cannot mention 'Please',
When asking for some help from me and you,
It really seems to me, that it is such an awful shame,
It tends to leave one feeling down and blue.
It's fetch me this, and, over there is what I want, Yes that! , .
But not one 'Please' is heard, it's not in sight,
And however much you give them hints, and however long you wait,
Their minds just stick, and never seem to bite.
It's like being in the army with the voice of the commander,
Shouting out his regular orders to his troops,
But when we tied the knot, I didn't join the army,
Oh! It really rankles, and give's one's heart the droops.
Sometimes one feels that all in all, one's just a useful soul,
Who's not really there, and invisible for sure,
We are so taken for granted, yet we answer every call,
I don't know why, we just don't, walk out the door! .
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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In The Year 2150
In the year 2150,
I think that life could be pretty nifty,
Vehicles flashing past, in the blinking of an eye,
To space sites, far up in the sky.
There will be no need for marking spaces,
For on earth there will be no parking places.
People will live in a monochrome suite,
As a house will have become obsolete.
Conveyor belts will carry everyone about,
An easy way to travel, without a doubt.
There will be no fashion, just zip up suits,
And no fancy shoes, just standard boots.
No zany hairdos, hair cropped real short,
That's what regulations will have taught.
All food will be in a capsule form,
And two hours sleep will be the norm.
Automatons, are what the populace will be,
Robots on the go, never ever feeling free.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Valentine's Day at the Florist's
'Good Morning Sir, what would you like?
A single rose perhaps or more,
Wrapped beautifully in cellophane,
With card and bows galore'
'She'll love you for the thought Sir,
I recommend the red,
They'll be delivered too, Sir,
Yes, I'll sign it', ' Love from Ted'.
'I know the cost is high, Sir,
But 'quality's the thing,
Especially with roses,
Think of all the love they bring.
'We go for the 'Wow' factor,
Did I mention this before? ,
Oh, Yes, I think I did, Sir,
Well if you're really sure'.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Someone Missing? Someone Gone?
I listened to the old man’s sighs,
he bowed his head and closed his eyes.
Back in time his memories went.
His shoulders and his back were bent.
His face took on a haunted look,
as he scrolled through his minds scrapbook.
A smile appeared and up he glanced,
remembering some time enhanced
by pictures entering his mind,
something that he had left behind
in those faint far away spent days,
recollected down distant ways.
And then his countenance turned grim,
a stark event came back to him,
forgotten for a long, long spell,
making the shining tears to dwell,
within those seeing orbs that shone.
Is someone missing? Someone gone?
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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