Poetry

Long summers past, I won't forget.

the walks I took with friends I met

along lifes' path.

What fun we had, what games, what laughs.

Skylarks singing on the wing,

sweet, fresh air on gentle breeze,

we never worried 'bout a thing

in the early seventies.

Thirty years and more has passed

and I look back with fondness now

at my young life as it was then

and wonder why I had to grow.

If only those days could return,

what would I give for one short hour?

It really does make my heart yearn

for Summer evenings, April showers,

just as they were, back in my youth.......

the 'good old days' and that's the truth.

Andy Edwards 23/06/08

Did you write that Andy?

That is so good; nostalgic and evocative of memories that grow sweeter as time passes.

Ray 

I apologise if that sounds like a comment and mark I might  give a student. It was not meant to be like that.

Ray. 

I am sure denzil could write a poem too. how about 'The horse-whisperer of old Bodmin Town' there is a good title for you. I would like to see the completed work on my desk by 3.30 please. Denzil...Denzil..Stop picking your nose and pay attention.

Ray 

I am serious now Andy, that is a lovely poem. you have a real feel for the words and the images they conjure up.

Ray 

''The horse whisperer of old Bodmin town'' by Denzil Tregallion.

Don't go down to Bodmin

if you're easily shocked

there's strange things goin' on there

behind them doors thats locked

Horses are a'neighing

in the places they are staying

I know they're only playing

but I wouldn't let our Ray in.

Dennis Pendragon

arrived in his wagon

and said a few things to the 'orse

I don't know what 'appened

but he sat on his lap and

now he's enrolled on a course.

Dobbin's now happy

to stay in the field

eating his words and hay

along came a spider

and now he's a rider

he's taking old Dobbin away.

A horse

of course

prefers a stable

to a night in bed

but if he's able

to sit at the table

he'll share your jam and bread.

So please don't encourage them to stay at your house

Leave that to the cat and the mouse

And when you come to think of it

It's you that has to clear up the ....

That is priceless, and so quickly written too. Just like a play 'What I wrote' from Ernie wise.

Brilliant.  now. I have things to do and I cannot leave here. It is all your fault.

Ray