Liphook Community Magazine Summer 2017

Poets Corner
Skylarks Remembered
Modern Grannies
Upon a cold November day,
Some forty years, or more, ago,
Beside the harbour we did stay,
Small boats a-swaying, to and fro.
The gentle slap of sea on shore,
Small scurrying crabs on mudflats, sink,
And seaweed swells atop the bore,
As tide encroaches on the brink.
The sea salt and the wind whip up
White horses on the waves offshore,
And in the sky the skylarks sing,
As high above our heads they soar.
Oh small brown birds, you linger long,
For us to fill our heart and mind,
To hold the joy of your sweet song,
As to our souls your notes do bind.
And now your flight is rare to see,
Your liquid warble fades away,
But when you sang, “Remember me”,
We hear you still, this mild March day.
Angela Glass
I have a little granny, she’s really very old
But also unconventional in the most unusual mould
She doesn’t wear her spectacles perched upon her nose.
She wears her contact lenses and varnishes her toes,
Unlike some other grannies, who are home before it’s dark
She dresses up in her tracksuit, jig jogging in the park.
And when I wish she’d sometimes stay and tuck me in my bed
She’s off to study yoga or standing on her head.
Some grannies sit in rocking chairs and crochet shawls in doors
But my granny jumps upon a horse and rides across the moors.
She goes on day trips with her gang of over fifties club
They rocket around the countryside and end up in the pub.
And on the homeward journey like a flock of singing birds,
They harmonise old favourites, with very naughty words.
I love my little granny, I think she’s really great.
If that’s what growing old is like, well, I simply cannot wait.
Anonymous
Wind on the Hill
No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
Its flying from somewhere
As fast as it can.
I couldn’t keep up with it,
Not if I ran.
The Locked Door
As my heels go tap across the floor
I wonder what's behind the door
Is it nice or is it nasty
Or will it merely take my fancy?
I think I know what's behind the door
I've knocked not once but twice before
If I am right and play my part
Behind it I may find your heart.
But if I stopped holding,
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.
And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.
So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes…
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.
Linda Foster
From Now we are six by A.A.Milne
35