Teenagers standing on rocks,
Longing to jump in but standing in sudden fear.
Waves swaying against the stone walls,
Hoping to topple them but not having the strength.

The Strand over looking The Hook,
Wishing to catch one's eye in its grasp.
People wondering aimlessly looking,
Longing to find happiness in the wandering beauty.

Climbing the cliffs to find life's secret excitement,
Seeking that sweet rush,
The awe and need for some strange accomplishment.
The glory of youth.

The wanderers searching for escape from life's grasp.
Scared of being alone,
They look for adventure to fill their minds and hearts with needed attention.
Like the two lighthouses standing tall,
I overlook their lives,
Wanting to guide some lost souls
back to the safety of a sandy shore.

Slowly falling back to reality
In each passing day.
You must leave once again,
Return to the salty waters and brisk waves.
How sweet it is,
For youth to venture and explore,
For they do not know life's sad secret.
Grasping them slowly.

It is my manner when breaking bread
to think of poetry whilst I’m being fed.
Such times as when I’m eating venison,
I’ll choose the company of Tennyson.
Afterwards with my crackers and Stilton
I’ll probably read the poetry of Milton.

If it should be noted a meal seems a trifle tardy?
The cause can be squarely blamed on Hardy!
But the poems of William Barnes are preferred,
as my first choice, when the soup is stirred.
As for roast of beef, dripping in gravy drowning,
I fall back upon the writings of Browning,

and let either Robert or Elizabeth hold sway.
Later they give way to the dark poems of Gray.
Whilst the flavour of buttered, ginger parkin,
is accentuated by the simple poems of Larkin.
For tedious hours watching, as the spit turns,
I’ll resort to reading poems by Robert Burns.

But then again if someone should have Dunmore
to make my meal Fuller?  I’ve time for Moore.
For such as me, that when read, it is thought best
to be joined at dinner by the honoured Guest,
then I’ll choose the rare words of the Poet Blake,
as we enjoy roast beef, pork or a tender steak!

When one is enjoying a flagon of Draught beer,
I select and read the poems of Will Shakespeare.
But should the occasion call for a stronger brew?
One must perforce resort to one Thomas Carew.
Yes, my choice often depends on what one eats.
So whether I read Dryden, Hamilton or Keats,

the perfect match required for poetry and food,
may be augmented by the works of Thomas Hood.
Next with dessert: blanc mange or raspberry jelly,
I’ll delight in the words of Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Whilst a slice of rich plum pudding or apple ****
demands I read Wordsworth or Scott at the start.

But I’ll often leave my choice of food and poetry
until a moment when, in contemplative reverie
I’ve decided what will enhance and complement
my daily meal.  Though Poetry is thought a condiment.
I sometimes think plain food tastes by far the best
when one adds poems of renowned Sackville West.

At times when I indulge in convivial tippling,
it’s a pleasure enjoyed with Rudyard Kipling.
With careful selection, I have one avowed intent,
to ensure my every meal is a pleasant event.
So as an aid to digestion and a sop to my Soul,
Prior is to the soup, as Dryden is to the casserole.

For me a mix of food and poetry, fills a vital need.
But no matter which Poet I decide next to Read,
when the meal is eaten, I can relax and sit still,
a Poet that springs to mind, is always Hill.
But the poetry thought best, for it brings no Payne,
is to read Hardy’s Dorset poetry, yet once again!

Rhymer. June,24th, 2018.