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Impish Mode

November 11, 2012

OK, so I’m no Roger McGough.  But occasionally some little imp of humour does put in an appearance.  I see him as a grinning green entity with mocking eyes!

It was in impish mode in May 2010 that I wrote a poem following a playground visit with my grandson “Little O’s”, then aged two.  Our game of football came to a rather grisly conclusion, as described in ‘Good Save!’

And my grinning green friend was in the ascendant again yesterday when I rewrote one of my earliest efforts, a prose poem from nearly forty years ago when Stella and I lived just across the border in Wales.  ‘Village After Rain’ started out as an attempt to simply pin down my impressions following a deluge – a pretty weak piece, if I’m honest.  So, come the rewrite, my imp decided to pep things up with a dash or two of the surreal…

Hope you like them.




This ball, you’ll note, was caught from below

In the claws of a long-dead crow.


With a brother aloft, he’d seen off a buzzard,

Then tumbled to earth with a slug in the gizzard.


And hear he’d lain rotting till along came a tot,

Who fancied the goal and took a brave shot.


So remember the crow and his posthumous save,

And let this clasped ball mark his grave.






Cowering still from the downpour, the village holds its breath.  Gullies gurgle full-bore.  Friesians belch in the shippen.  Otherwise all is silence.  Pint-pots in hand, sawdust underfoot, the saloon-bar regulars make a sorry tableau…

Now comes a spider with bright legs to straddle the valley.  Doors open and the village breathes again.  Friesian methane mingles with the tang of the earth…

Don’t anyone strike a match!




Copyright © Paul Beech 2012

From → Poetry

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