The Whisky Affair

The August, OF adventure’s here,

Off to Winchester we go

With group discounted cheer

By train to the whisky show

A day is also remembered for

Adventures of one year ago

Fyne Ales and Cal Mac ferry to

Islay shores where whisky flows

At King Alfred’s ancient city

Through sunlit streets and down

To ‘Spoons - the former Goal House

Where food and ale abound

A Stonehenge Great Dane lager

Oh, if I’d know it so

I would have chose that pale ale

They call ‘Arapaho’

Well I think that’s what they call it

But perhaps it does not flow

I heard a punter order

Pint of ay-are-apa-ho

Incarceration ended, and

On to the grand Guildhall

Terror check for rucksack, and,

Glass and vouchers for all

Whisky galore! Scottish and Welsh,

Japanese, Indian and Dutch

Sherried and peated, bourbon and rye

Though not keen on Moonshine much

Which one to choose, I have a plan

This one is good, have a try

Whisky is free at Paul John

And Benromach, my oh my!

Daryl plays Led Zep with Sid

Are we  all Dazed and Confused?

Show soon ends in whisky haze

And a voucher still unused.

Golden spirit’s warming glow

Steers four to oldest bar

Where Greene King decor’s been applied

And plastic and pastels jarr

Four pints of ale and make it real

Summer Lightening will be fine

Here’s Hophouse 13 instead

That’s lager they all whine

Vacating GK’s new-old bar

Outside and into fresher air

It’s soon apparent Mike’s not right

His wobbly legs - a useless pair

Homeward-bound our mission now

To stabilise, we sandwich Mike 

With six good legs from eight

Like extra wheels on early bike

Reaching  station, wait for train

Coffee bought with hopeful aim

To clear the whisky fuddled brain

So errant legs could walk again

Train arrives we climb aboard

At Southampton need the loo

Off with helpers to the ‘gents’

Then number 9 bus queue

Bus dismounted at Butts Ash

Day recapped, and farewells said

One more walk to home and wife

Welcomed in and sent to bed

What happened? It’s a mystery

What then the answer, I think maybe

Benromach whisky going for free.

Speak of this day,? If you dare

to mention, the ‘Whisky Affair’.

Glyn Smith 

©  2017

Seasons of Life

This poem is a tribute to my late father, read as a eulogy at his funeral.  Dad enjoyed life and was a friendly, always happy person, who loved being outdoors, especially in his garden and allotment.  The poem celebrates the the things he enjoyed and shared with us when we were younger..


Seasons of Life

Spring
A new March dawns and Spring awakes
The gardener surveys his plot
Beds are weeded and soil is raked
New seeds are planted into pots.

Early walkers, golden sunrise
Long grass sniffing runs faithful hound
Startled skylark sings to the skies
Mushrooms collected, breakfast bound.

Down to the woodlands verdant floor
Splashing stream runs in shady glade
May’s bluebell carpet, scent galore
A vibrant blue that’s heaven-made.

In Spring but also all year round,
When the family congregate
Sundays in Darton to be found
Giant Yorkshire Pudding on the plate.


Summer
The push of the Qualcast green and red
Fountains of grass through whirring blades
Emptied grass box on compost bed
Green lawn striped with alternate shades.

Wriggling worms on bent pin hook
Leaning over pond, not too far.
Curious minnow takes a look
And joins the tadpoles in the jar

Holidays by the Yorkshire coast
Scarborough, Brid and Flambro’ Head,
Caravan home we loved the most
Walks on the cliff top before bed.

Ice creams, windmills, buckets and spades
In sand built speedboat take a ride
Sandcastle tower flags parade
Washed away by the rising tide

Leather on willow, straw hatted
Summer deckchair, radio loud
Live from Lords as Boycott batted
Ten wicket trophy, very proud

Autumn
It’s harvest time and down in Scholes
Allotment yields its bumper crops
‘Taties unearthed and beans from poles
Chat over wall when locals stop.

Volvo glides up the homeward lane,
With biggest parsnips ever seen,
Beetroot pot’s on the boil again
Cabbages in lush folds of green.

Darker nights making advances
The trolley rattles down the hill
Hang on tight we’ll take our chances
As woodland bound we share the thrill.

Fill the trolley with bonfire wood
Back up the hill much slower now
We pushed hard, but weren’t so good
To save our Dad from sweated brow.

November 5th our bonfire stood
A monument to all that’s good
In someone who toiled sweat and blood
To bring it all up from the wood.

Our neighbours came from all around
To watch Guy Fawkes go up in flames
On bonfire burning to the ground
With fireworks, parkin, fun and games.

Winter
The soil is turned in winter time
Allotment earth is cold and bare
The Brussel Sprouts are in their prime
Freshly picked for Christmas day fare

When sparkling snow covers the ground
A sledge is built to beat the rest
On snowy hill top we’ll be found
Hold on tight and over the crest

At Christmas time we’re at the Bay
Carling Black Label, pint of Stones
Ken, Sheila, Barbara and Ray,
Songs and laughter and click of bones.

Though Winter seems to never end
Snowdrops soon lift their dainty heads
Tools to clean, and tools to mend
Tidy up things in garden sheds.

So kettle boiled and mash the tea
And in the Gardening Year book
Turning the page to thirty-three
And you will see them if you look

Those life enhancing words that say
The gardener works as a part
Of nature’s rhythms and this way
With March the yearly cycle starts.

All Seasons
Dad made it last his whole life long,
Four score and eight years, just one thing
His love of life through joy of song
Any place, full voice we heard him sing!

So sing, sing a song, now you are
In heaven with the angels too
And we know that it’s not too far
From the song in our hearts to you.



 (c)2017  G. Smith

Siren Song

Siren Song

At seventeen I heard your call

And set a course to fall

Beneath your magic spell

That I’d come to know so well

Little light, shining…

Though life’s moon can wax and wane,

Your constancy is just the same

Each sound enchanting as the last

I’m still on course, and running fast,

I’m running up that hill…

Your beauty is so often thought

To be the web in which I’m caught

No – there’s more that makes you whole

Something which can touch my soul

The hounds of love are calling….

Perhaps my nature is disposed

To feel the passion in your prose,

Your haunting melody, and motion

The joy of such unchained emotion

The man with the child in his eyes….

On rock, astride the sea and sky

Like the singing of the lorelei

Tantalise in morning mists

So many sailor’s ears you’ve kissed

I am falling…

Decades lost since seventeen

And though you are not often seen

Your special music always will

Take my world and hold it still

Everytime it rains, you’re here…

Close in time but worlds apart

And all my life my aching heart

Has waited for so long

To hear your siren song.

I’ve come home now….

Dedicated to Kate Bush

(c)  G Smith

iCare

iCare 

To every insured’s disaster

I’ll always get there faster

Responding to my customer’s plea

Please, take care of me.

My home is in an awful mess

How will I cope with all the stress?

But you have shown me empathy

Your words and deeds reassure me.

You can help get my life back

To where it was before that crack,

Or flood, or fire or theft,

Occurred and made me so bereft.

You can be sure I’ll treat you fair

You see my culture is ‘iCare’.

I’ll be there to take your call

You don’t need to worry at all.

Always there supportively

You lead my claim expertly.

You make my claim hassle-free, and

Commit to a solution that suits me.

So now your home’s good as new

I’ve kept the promise made to you

By your insurer, when you paid

Your premium, for their aid.

Uncomfortable Skin

Uncomfortable Skin 

Now fifty five and one half years

Spring rains are falling soft like tears

While all about grows fresh and green

A growing threat, as yet unseen

Is still a harmless friend.

Discoloured patch of forearm skin

I can’t remember, did it begin

This year, or last or one before?

Nothing to bring it to the fore

Creeping forward to a dangerous end.

“Why don’t you visit the GP”

“Is it something he’ll want to see?”

Never thought it would be serious

Diagnosed it as ‘mysterious’

The consultant,  you must attend.

Studies the consultant’s expert eye

“Suspicious mole!” I hear him cry

And quickly reaches his decision

We will remove it by excision

Then for biopsy a sample send.

Swift surgeon’s knife removes the mark

A few more weeks kept in the dark

Then as a judge his sentence passed

Solemn conclusions delivered at last

Melanoma - but likely you will mend.

Although expecting something wrong

Shock still hits like a hammered gong

Brave face belies the inner fear

Cancer brings so little cheer

To take around life’s bend

More skin excised, we must be clear

Those sickly cells that might be near

Are all removed and risk is low

And hope you’ll never say hello

Again, carcinogenic friend.

(C)  Glyn Smith 2014

Railway Preserve

 Railway Preserve

Half a century now past

Since branch line travelled last

When Beeching’s axe fell.

Torn down in reckless haste

Railway lives gone to waste
Only memories left to tell.

Old stations that remain

Will never see a train

No up slow, or down fast.

Now homes for car repair

Or diners unaware

Of glory times past.

Betjeman foretold its doom
So is there any room

To save the cherished line?

Thank God for volunteers

Who, in intervening years,

Fought hard to turn back time.

The rusted engine's won
Now shining in the sun
Restored by hearts of gold.

The branch line lives again
And passengers ride the train
Living history to behold.

©  Glyn Smith 2014 (rev 2017)