Tarquin Botley’s Hole

hole

Take that, ‘Tarquin’, for your mischievous poem about digging…

*

Tarquin Botley was confused

Dishevelled and dismayed

How can you dig a hole with ‘owt

You cannot call a spade?

He’d really dug a lovely hole

A fork had come in handy

And then some faffing with a hoe

Had made the rim look dandy

It sure was an amazing hole

‘Twas dark and deep, inviting

The making of it had been hard

The end result exciting

Quite why he’d dug it wasn’t clear

At some point he’d said ‘F*ck It’

Had armed himself with beer, and

His very favourite bucket

Then he started, then he finished

Then he stood, in thought, beside it

Not quite sure next what to do

To fall right in, or hide it

For how do you explain a hole

Discreetly and politely

Without referencing arseholes

Or the once a week, or nightly

Now Tarquin was a tactful cove

Politically correct

He stood there thinking by his hole

All noble and erect

Till he came to a conclusion

That is popular with men

I’ll fill it up, and then I’ll come

And dig it out again

 *

© Gail Foster 22nd August 2016

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They Never Went To War

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*

They never went to war; they stayed at home

The young, the old, the unwell and the dead

The women who were not allowed to roam

The men who tilled the fields and baked the bread

Those sat in darkness waiting for the rap

Of letterbox, and soft white feather fall

The silence broken by a dripping tap

Dark shadows cast by street lamps on the wall

The little lads who ran behind the train

That took their fathers off to certain death

Who waved until their arms ached in the rain

Who ran until their lungs ran out of breath

Old men who yearned for youth; just one more chance

To feel the blood flow, hear the battle cry

To wear the uniform and take a stance

To stand with other men, to fight and die

The crippled and the mad, the deaf, the blind

Escaped the fate of many thousand men

Some angry that they had been left behind

Some thankful that they’d never fight again

 Women, who with their sleeves rolled ploughed the land

Lit candles, raised the children, hid their tears

Made ammunitions with a careful hand

Kept watch and saved the night time for their fears

So many stayed at home, and stayed alive

And suffered pain and loss, regret and guilt

That they were left, that they were to survive

Within the house such sacrifice had built

Their many names are not inscribed on stone

Those sorrowed souls, so haunted by war’s ghost

Were left to stand and mourn the dead alone

Listening to the trumpet sound the post

*

by Gail

Moving in Mysterious Ways; the All Blacks

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*

The All Blacks, man, are they for real?

They’re faster than the speed of light

Don’t blink, you’ll miss them, they’re surreal

I’m awake, not dreaming, right?

They just left the French for dead

They’re faster than the speed of sound

Eyes in the back of every head

Feet that fly above the ground

What power, what fitness, what on earth

Possesses men to be that fine

What strange goddess gave them birth

What discipline keeps them in line

I sit here gobsmacked, oh my days

I understand now, here’s the crack;

The All Blacks move in mysterious ways

Dark Gods of rugby blessed, in black

*

by Gail