Entries for a competition

In praise of Guernsey fishermen 

In winter, when Guernsey looks for snow 

We get instead a hefty blow 

of hail and sleet and endless rain: 

and suffer fiercest storms again. 

The waves are whipped above the towers 

a church clock chimes the worried hours 

as boats are battling in the storm 

the rest of us are snug and warm. 

So spare a thought for all who toil: 

sailors and fishermen so loyal 

who labour many hours at sea 

to bring us fish (with chips) for tea. 

Guernsey summer 

Seashells and sandcastles, sandwiches and sea 

Crisps and cakes and biscuits and ice-cream cones for tea. 

Beach cricket, volleyball and a football or two 

Lots of time to have some fun under the sky so blue.

Bicycling and walking, strolling through the lanes, 

staying out till late at night: summer's come again. 

Concerts in the open air; films and plays and more 

Barbeques aplenty right here on the sea shore. 

Kayaking or surfing, jumping in the sea: 

Guernsey in the summer: that's the best for me! 

Fire 

In the glowing  

dreams which once flew smokily away 

sizzle alive again,  

imprints on unwary hearts. 

Visions writhing, 

calling, siren-like, to reach and grasp 

these burning wishes,  

branding my very being. 

I lose myself 

in red-gold embers deeply beckoning 

abstracted reason. 

A moment seized - then gone. 

I wake. 

Seasoning 

Summer water beckons mint-green cool 

to feverish hot skin. 

Shimmering air gently coaxes ripples of contentment. 

Autumn trees entice the walker in 

kaleidoscope of colour. 

Careering leaves crisply stir up expectations. 

Winter storms rage angry in the wind 

whipping souls in deep sadness 

and the Christ child brings rejoicing. 

Spring newness waiting to burst 

upon an unsuspecting world. 

Seasons rumble, turning without pause into the future. 

Late at night 

I sit alone in the darkness of an empty kitchen; 

a strident moon shouts silver through the glass. 

The dishwasher grumbles efficiently, 

lights winking, other appliances whisper attention 

while the house sleeps. 

But I do not. As I ready my body for bedtime quiet  

my mind starts its sprint to worry. Beginning with a jog 

past landmarks of disquiet, I agitate to reach  

that which is most distressing, running full tilt arms outstretched  

to embrace my deepest fears. 

Sympathy 

When you were small, your mother loved 

to wipe away your tears. 

Now you are grown, your mother left 

for you to mourn the years. 

Yet life and love she gladly gave 

as you continue through; 

And while you mourn, remember this: 

Her life lives on: in you.