The Bench

What have I become, this once so solid flesh?

A memory brought to mind in an instant;

To those dearest to me, forever fresh.

To some I am an afterthought, a topic to reminisce,

The boy who broke the classroom window,

The one with whom you shared your first kiss.

The man who always wore highly polished shoes

And in latter days walked with a hand carved cane.

He challenged the council over the by-pass plans

And made a stand the day that the bulldozers came.

For those I have an engraved plaque on the bench

Bought in lieu of funeral flowers, as my want.

The plaque simply spells out my name and dates

Of birth and death in clear, plain sans serif font.

Colin Beardshall 2014

The Mirror

Go towards the mirror.

Relax, take in the view.

See the bright light shining?

Yes that really is you.

You are seeing your full potential.

Think of all that you can do;

Write a book, paint a picture.

Start your life anew.

Maybe you won’t achieve greatness,

But there is no harm in trying.

A journey starts with a single step.

Not to take it is self denying.

So stride on proudly along the way,

Always following the light.

Be mindful of your surroundings

And never give up the fight.

Two Left Feet

I was born with two left feet

Slave to the rhythm,

victim of the beat.

Getting me on to the dance floor

Is like getting a vegan

through a butcher’s shop door.

My skills in dance are virtually nil,

If only there was a magical pill

That would make me dance like Fred Astaire,

Then I would dance most anywhere.

Hercules

Hercules, such a sturdy horse;

Retired from the local force.

Match day duty, his no more,

Brave Hercules.

Put to grass on a quiet farm

Kept well fed and safe from harm

No noisy crowds or blaring alarms

For Hercules.

Loved by all who passed his way.

Fed best oats and good fresh hay

A juicy apple would make his day

Dear Hercules.

Soon his body could not take

Another winter, his muscles ached

A sad decision they had to make

Poor Hercules.

In the field where he once stood

Stands a horse now made of wood

Gone forever the flesh and blood

Of Hercules.

Colin Beardshall 2014

Fragments

Our names are our identity,

How we are known in the world.

Family and friends fix us in their minds

With an appellation given at birth.

We are our name whatever we do

Even if we change it through deed poll,

Or become famous under another.

Our name will always say us.

But how are we to be remembered

If we fail to make a mark.

When we die our name lives on

Only in the memories of those who knew us.

Some, who live notable lives

Have names that survive the years,

Filling the pages of history books.

Greater still are those that are carved

In marble or granite, life eternal is theirs.

The heroes and the powerful,

The loved and the loathed

All achieve immortality in stone

While we, the common people

Are lucky to leave a fragment of bone,

We are fragments.

Fragments of a memory.

Colin Beardshall 2014

Bourton on the Water

The sun dappled branches of an old crack willow

Provide coolness and shade on a hot summer’s day.

She lay there using my lap for a pillow,

While I watched the river in a nonchalant way.

We had come to this spot on our Cotswolds break,

Enjoying the sun, the birds and the flowers.

The clear, bright water, a meandering snake.

A scene so serene we could sit here for hours.

Colin Beardshall 2013.

Beach Huts

Beach huts, lined up

Rainbow coloured hues.

How to know

The sun, no show

When is summer due?

Take a chance, a quick glance

ascertain the weather.

stick out hand,

wet or dry?

Forecasting isn’t clever.

Colin Beardshall 2014

At The Gate I Met A Maiden

At the gate I met a maiden, fair as fair could be.

I looked into her bright blue eyes and she smiled back at me.

“Oh maiden fair I love thee so e’en though we have just met.

Ours is an eternity that hasn’t started yet.

Say you’ll be mine and I will show you love as rarely found.

I will give you heaven on earth; your feet won’t touch the ground.”

“Oh good sir but would I could accept your gracious offer,

But alas I am with child, the offspring of another.

yet I love not the baby’s father, for him I have no desire,

For  love was lacking in the union, I was ravaged by the Squire.”

“Well, I will take you from this land.  We’ll build ourselves a home

And we shall live in harmony, the child I will treat as my own.

Then one day I shall return, put the Squire to the sword.

Your child will claim its birthright, of that you have my word."

Colin Beardshall 1314

An Estuary Nocturne

The dying light of another day

Dapples gold upon the water.

The sun, weary of the world

Is resting on the horizon.

Here fresh water meets brine

The birds have fed well on the margins

And now they look only to sleep

Keeping a watchful eye out for hunters

That might stealthily creep in the night.

Tomorrow is never taken for granted.

Night calls fill the marsh scented air

An ethereal echo of the day just passed.

Small creatures emerge from diurnal sleep.

The night is theirs until, taken by surprise

They are sent running from the rising sun.

Colin Beardshall 2014.

A Thankless Task

They worked the mine for 50 years

In the heat and dark, digging for coal.

Every day they confronted their fears

Of ever getting out of this stinking hole.

At age sixty five they fill their last wagon

leaving the pit with a handshake and lamp.

They also take with them lungs full of dust

retirement blighted by bronchitis and cramp.

In their mid seventies, if they are lucky

They’ll need to breath oxygen through a mask.

Most won’t see eighty, pneumoconiosis

The price they pay for a thankless task.

DVR A. Hayes R.A.

In my hand I hold a disc made of bronze.

Beyond the tactile it means nothing to me.

I’m not the person to whom it belongs

I’m not the one who earned it you see.

The medal was found in box of clutter,

On a flea market stall, cost fifty pence.

A small price to pay for a war-time relic

Given to all who served, scant recompense.

What price glory when so many fell

On the battlefields of Belgium and France.

Those brave souls who went through hell

When all they wanted was a fighting chance.

Spare a thought for Driver. A. Hayes

Army number three, four, six, eight, two.

The freedom we have, the continued peace

All that we are, we owe it to you.

Colin Beardshall 2014

Big Ears

Everyone called him Big Ears, a fitting appellation

Not that his actual ears were big.  You never saw

Them under the large joke shop ears that he wore

Whenever he was out and about.  You’d see him

In the railway station or waiting for a tram

On West Street.  He’d be at the other side of the road

Looking like a startled deer.  You’d wonder if he had

The wherewithal to make it across the street.  And he had.

He was not concerned that people looked at him

And pointed him out to their friends or little ones.

He was in a world of his own and in his world you

Went about your daily business wearing joke shop ears.

  

I heard him mentioned on the radio once, a famous

Local celebrity had seen him in the station and thought it

Good conversation to mention the guy with the big, plastic,

Joke shop ears.  I left Sheffield and have never seen 

Big Ears since, even though I have been back many times.

I wonder if he has moved on to joke shop teeth or perhaps

A monster hand?  Whatever he is doing now, I admire him

Because who among us would wear joke shop ears

While conducting our day to day business?

I wouldn’t.

  

Colin Beardshall 2014

Journey’s End

A  journey starts with a single step

Our destination may be unknown.

We all learn from our experiences

And at journeys end we have grown.

Though our mountain might be high

And seemingly unforgiving

We’ll never know unless we try

To climb that hill and start living.

Our friends have helped us on the way

Setting steps on a gradual ascent

We took them with our gratitude

Leaving love wherever we went.

Colin Beardshall 2014