3WW: The Quest

The words this week are meddle, ambush, hideous

A knight and his lady from old Camelot
Were walking one day in a fine beauty spot
When an ambush came on them, and down from above
Swooped a dragon, abducting the knight’s lady love

Our hero was plunged into abject despair
That a hideous monster should take one so fair
He vowed he’d give all, for his lady to save
And embarked on a quest to the creature’s home cave

Such adventures he had and such people he met!
What beautiful sights that he’d never forget!
Brave deeds he accomplished, great battles he fought
Til at last to his quarry our young knight was brought

And when he arrived there, exhausted and sore
Oh, what a peculiar sight lay in store
In the lady's sweet presence, the beast had reformed
Its temper was peaceful, its heart had been warmed

“My lady, I’ve struggled through numerous fights
Why didn’t you send word that you were alright?”
“My lord, you seemed glad there was praise to be won
I hated to meddle and ruin your fun”

'Twas the night before Christmas

The Home Counties version

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse
Yes, even the mice in their holes slumbered deep
While the people were snuggled in beds, fast asleep

When the silence was split by a sound on the roof
Just the tiniest scratch, like the step of a hoof
And then scuffles and murmurs that might just suggest
That a person was squeezing down our chimney breast

From the living room hearth a loud scream rent the air
Clearly someone had found the bear trap I'd left there
So to any strange men who break in, let's be clear:
You've been warned how we deal with trespassers here

Merry Christmas

Losing the train

A true story

“We’ve lost the train,” intones the bored sounding man on the Southwest Trains helpline. As though losing several tons of metal which only trundle up and down one line of track is like mislaying some car keys. Shivering on the platform, waiting for said locomotive, I don’t believe him, so I call again. This time, a woman answers, sounding middle-aged, brisk, like somebody’s mother.

“We’ve lost the train,” she says with absolute sincerity, “The 20.30, 21.00, and 21.30 are all cancelled and the 22.00 has vanished. No, we can’t stop any of the fast trains at your little provincial station as they’re all operated by a different train company. It would be more than our jobs are worth…”

I try to take my mind off my desperate situation by composing a rhyme. But my neural pathways are as frozen as everything else on that glacial, wind-swept platform.

Trains dissolve in freezing air
Dying in the epic frost
Information lines declare
“No idea, the thing’s been lost”

My evening commute took three bitter, agonising, frostbite-inducing hours. At no point was there any hint of an apology. For this I pay £87.50 a week.

Rant over.

Sunday Scribblings

Today's subject is dare. My rhyme is inspired by all the hiking I've been doing in the beautiful weather this weekend.

THE PATH

Through winter snow and summer sun
Old autumn leaves and spring’s new bud
The aged path meanders on
Over chalk and ice and mud

It hugs white cliffs by wild shore
Then winds up over open downs
And crosses meadow grass before
Descending through small antique towns

What ancient feet carved out this trail?
What destinations did they seek?
Countless men this route have scaled
Yet every journey’s quite unique

To walk this path myself, I dare
And follow every way it goes
In climate either grim or fair
I struggle through its highs and lows

When tired and wet with mud and grime
Then I remind myself anew
The summit reached by hardest climb
Will offer me the greatest view

At night when I lie down to sleep
Beneath a soft, warm quilt I hide
At slumber’s edge the thought I keep
I know the path still waits outside

My Life is Average

Today on the train I sat next to a guy
Dark-suited and smart, he seemed, sober, discreet
From his well-polished shoes to the knot of his tie
A stereotype from the world of Magritte

He avidly read from a neat, plain black book
What tedious treatise absorbed one so grey?
I craned round his shoulder to take a close look
A novel of Narnia. MLIA.

A Petrarchan sonnet on the British Airways strike

A strike! No festive spirit for this crew
Twelve days of Christmas walkouts we await
Just anguished travellers at each departure gate
Delays and cancellations all accrue
The war of words in press breaks out anew
The union and managers recriminate
While passengers are left to meet their fate
Now all of their vacation plans are screwed
And if both sides persist to bluff and fob
They’ll kill the goose that lays the golden egg
If BA can’t plug their financial hole
They’ll end up bust and all will lose their job
Thus both sides for a compromise should beg
For all are equal queuing for the dole

Alexandrines on the bus

As I was riding on the number 52
These guys got on and then attempted to pursue
A conversation with all those who sat around
Apparently they're tired of seeing all our frowns
The smile I gave to them was very small and tight
And then I turned my gaze outside into the night
I think it's only natural that when we're close
As sardines in a tin we become less verbose
Pretend that we're not packed in a great human pile
By keeping to ourselves. But you say I should smile
I really can't care less for all your "shoulds" and "oughts"
I think you should get lost and leave me to my thoughts

First musings...

My first post, how exciting. Like any great literary enterprise (hey, stop laughing at the back there), of course it should start by invoking the muse:


To you, who’ve mixed with men so wise,
The muse, who, over countless years
Has helped great genius devise

You’ve whispered into straining ears
Brave concepts not expressed before
The genesis of sage ideas

Whichever problems I endure
Whatever blunders I may make
How lost I grow as I explore

Pray, let each be my own mistake
And leave me be, this I implore.