Naiveties and Nursery Rhymes

Words, poems, rhymes and songs

Category: Holidays

Being on a Ferry

I wrote this with my daughter Elizabeth as we ‘ferried’ from Weymouth to Jersey.

Being on a ferry

Better than a cherry

Great big boat

Staying afloat

It’s windy up here

Fills us with fear.

Hair blown about

Water spout.

Being on a ferry

Kind’a merry

Great big boat

On England’s moat.

Ships in the sea

We can sea

Sailing free

Like our ferry.

Ode to the Castle Elizabeth Ferry

Charming Betty

The Charming Betty

A journey most curious

On ferry amphibious

Half boat, half 4-wheeled bus

Carried the five of us.

All hassle oblivious

To Castle Elizabeth.

image courtesy of http://www.jersey.com/PublishingImages/Attractions/display_detail/dis_elizabeth_castle_2.jpg
Find out more on the Jersey.com website.

There’s a fountain in a park in summertime

Sat by a fountain

Gushing like a geyser

Gushes down a mountain

Avalanche a freezer

Spraying in the sunshine

Refreshment stasis

Drops from a diamond mine

Urban oasis.

Death by Beetroot

It was unfortunate:

My last day in the sun.

Not to be beaten

By the unexpected summer rays,

I rushed to the beach

And allowed the sun to gaze

Full in my unprotected face

With only the ozone layer

And ninety three million miles of space

To protect me.

No sun cream here:

I soaked up the photons

On Factor Zero.

No-one would claim they had more time in the sun than me.

But, later, back at the hotel.

Delighted I hadn’t been beaten.

I was mistaken at dinner for beetroot.

And unceremoniously eaten.

Don’t trust BBC Weather when in Jersey

The trees come all the way down to the water

“The trees come all the way down to the water”

The BBC told me

It would only by thirteen in Jersey.

Thirteen Degrees C!

The same as the South Coast across the sea?

But it was warmer there

And emptier

And friendlier

The BBC didn’t tell me that.

I counted the clouds:

On Monday

There weren’t any;

On Tuesday

Clouds I sought ,

But there were naught;

On Wednesday I looked, but no,

Still zero.

So sitting on a beach

Under fierce furnace fire

In April

Where the trees come all the way down to the water

And the super-slow-motion crash of azure waves,

Diamond-tipped on golden sands.

In April

I figure that what the BBC

Told me

About Jersey

Was wrong.