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

Marsh Mayhem

The reeds rustle audibly in the wind

Like the flutter of birds on the wing.

Sedge warblers sing territorial songs

While out of sight a Bittern booms.

I still have half my packed lunch of soggy sandwiches.

Should I eat or feed the mallards that view me with intent?

The Mallards win and squabble over my discarded meal.

I pack away my lunch box and drain the flask of tea,

What was that, seen from the corner of my right eye?

Putting the binoculars to eye level I scour the reed beds.

There, I see it, Marsh Harrier on its evening patrol

Seeking the unwary among the restless birds.

One of the sedge warblers has just delivered its swan song.

Colin Beardshall 2013.