Sometimes the Horticultural Society have classes that don't quite fit to any of the categories we have mentioned before, or sometimes we just have something to say, well this is your chance, say it.
Here is a little limerick I wrote for a past show:
My entry in “A story in no more than fifty words.” This really did happen, on Cliffe Bridge, Lewes. I thought it was funny. Not sure he did, though!
He momentarily relaxed his grip. A vicious gust snatched is Beloved Fedora and it soared before gliding to the river below. Hurrying to the railings, they watched the hat emerge from Beneath the Bridge and sail majestically toward Newhaven, His lips parting in dismay, hers tight with suppressed laughter.
He momentarily relaxed his grip. A vicious gust snatched his
Beloved Fedora and it soared before gliding to the river below.
Hurrying to the railings, they watched the hat emerge from
Beneath the Bridge and sail majestically toward Newhaven,
His lips parting in dismay, hers tight with suppressed laughter.
This was entered into a class for a poem entitled ‘A Song for Sussex’. I’m not a poet by any means but I enjoyed writing it.
A Song for Sussex
Come walk with me the ancient forest and chalk cliffs high,
Along the rolling downland, beneath the vast, changing sky.
Come tread the criss-crossed footpaths and leafy bridleways,
To the distant sound of tractors turning sweet, meadow hay,
Then rest with me by shaded pools where tall willows weep,
And the wild honeysuckle scents the evening air so sweet.
We’ll follow the meandering river, tread the soft, springing turf,
Down to the glistening pebbles washed by white, frothing surf.
We’ll watch the sun sink in velvet dusk, beyond the patchwork fields,
And rise again to softly gild the sweeping, slumbering weald.
So many the simple pleasures, so much more than gold their worth,
So sing out in praise of Sussex, ‘Saelig’ county of our birth.
There’s really nothing much to write about,
In truth, not a lot ever happens here,
You may see the occasional sparrow hawk,
Maybe a couple of swift, running deer.
Oh look! There’s that nice P.C. Skinner,
Such a friendly, charming young man,
Often pops in to see Annie Pinner,
So conscientious, helping where he can.
Tch! Some darkly hint that he stays overlong,
Just ignore them; they have too much to say,
You see, poor Annie has so little company,
When her husband’s working away.
And if he sometimes looks a little dishevelled,
Yes, he can – usually when on his way out,
I imagine that’s just a result of relaxing,
After a hectic day running about.
Oh! There’s that red-headed Fanny Campbell,
Flying past to catch the mid-morning bus,
With her three young children following behind,
Bless them – always squabbling and making a fuss.
Isn’t it funny how two are as blonde as they come,
And pale complexioned, just like her Dick?
While the youngest is bordering on swarthy,
With hair so dark, so heavy and so thick.
Not unlike Toni’s, the ice-cream seller, in fact,
(They say his cornets are second to none),
Ringing his bell as he’s rounding the corner,
And never failing to stop at number one.
Fanny Campbell’s a most loyal customer,
Come rain or shine, hot or cold,
She’s always there, with her warm, eager smile,
Partial to tutti-frutti, or so I’m told.
Here comes old Tom, not the man he was,
But he absolutely refuses to give in.
Admire him! He forces himself to walk to the pub,
How sad, that on his return, the wobbliness sets in.
Good heavens! There’s his cousin, what’s his name?
Oh yes, it’s come to me now, Jimmy White,
Don’t often see him out during the day,
With the trouble he has sleeping at night.
They say his wife keeps a jolly good table,
On next to nothing can feed a legion or two,
And the fame of her dumplings has reached Lewes,
Not to mention all that rabbit and venison stew!
Oh well, I’d best get back to my knitting,
Leave the curtain twitchers to gossip and gloat,
Though what they find to talk about’s a mystery to me,
Because nothing ever happens here worthy of note