She left me in a hurry,
with no word of her return
so I sit and wait, in longing,
keep her treasures safe, and yearn

for her face to gaze upon me,
as she fettles her dear skin,
with the pots of creams and lotions
I keep for her, within

my rose-lined drawers and cupboards,
the little blue glass bird
with wedding rings upon his beak
I asked, he hasn’t heard

of when our lady may be back
to grace us with her care,
her brushes sit with us and fret
of the tangles in her hair

and all lack of gloss and shine
finger tips cannot bestow
within her titian crowning,
oh! Where did she go?

Days slip by unhindered,
and merging seasons pass,
without her song or laughter
reflected in my glass.

I may as well be firewood,
my veneer begins to crack,
then, hark! I hear sweet footsteps!
My mistress has come back!

Her wedding rings rehomed at last,
the bird and I rejoice,
as she brushes out her hair and sings,
for we have missed her voice.

She polishes away the cracks,
takes a seat upon her throne,
rearranging pots and lotions,
I’m so glad that she came home.

Late in the year and in the night,
A ghostly giant came into sight,
It slowly trailed and bulged the ancient causeway,
Intent on hiding out of harms way.

A magnificent beast from the age of sale,
Came into port to shelter from the winter storms and gales,
It groans and creaks from 50 sheets and rattles,
Like a wounded whale with its brass decor and iron chattels.

The body built of wood and steel,
With copper wrapped around it's keel,
To guard its cargo of rarest spice, silks and precious metals,
It puffed and steamed along like a giant boiled kettle.

It has travelled far with many scars,
Battled continents and violent seas with ease,
From the cape around the horn,
And onto the west indies.

It seeks and finally finds its place to rest and moor,
But alas the storm that winter did not pause,
It reached and breached the gates and harbour walls,
The fox was in through failing doors.

It attacked the beauty in its finest fettles,
Her belly broke from bow to stern,
It sharply shifts and lists while the candles burn,
Then sinks down to the bottom where it groans and settles.

It's fate and history long forgotten,
But for local shanty hymns,
The bulk is left but timbers rotten,
With cut back beams and withered limbs.

From endless tides it now resides,
Out of site and local memory,
Through rusted tears it counts the years,
Underneath a sea of nettles.

Late in the year and in the night,
A ghostly giant came into sight,
It slowly trailed and bulged the ancient causeway,
Intent on hiding out of harms way.

A magnificent beast from the age of sale,
Came into port to shelter from the winter storms and gales,
It groans and creaks from 50 sheets and rattles,
Like a wounded whale with its brass decor and iron chattels.

The body built of wood and steel,
With copper wrapped around it's keel,
To guard its cargo of rarest spice, silks and precious metals,
It puffed and steamed along like a giant boiled kettle.

It has travelled far with many scars,
Battled continents and violent seas with ease,
From the cape around the horn,
And onto the west indies.

It seeks and finally finds its place to rest and moor,
But alas the storm that winter did not pause,
It reached and breached the gates and harbour walls,
The fox was in through failing doors.

It attacked the beauty in its finest fettles,
Her belly broke from bow to stern,
It sharply shifts and lists while the candles burn,
Then sinks down to the bottom where it groans and settles.

It's fate and history long forgotten,
But for local shanty hymns,
The bulk is left but timbers rotten,
With cut back beams and withered limbs.

From endless tides it now resides,
Out of site and local memory,
Through rusted tears it counts the years,
Underneath a sea of nettles.

Peace be still, strike thy pose

Epitome of eloquence, footsteps of the queen

Pearls of wisdom, solemn portrait

Position thy hat, attend to thy shirt, that of satin, that of lace

Family ties, adornment to each

All is well with thee, obedience calls – o’ child be seen, be not heard

Be seated; be still, thou shalt not be disturbed

Workhouses – be deterred, apprentice house preferred

Sacrificial morning, make way to the pit

A revolution of demand, provisions of coal, of iron, of copper, deposits of old

What sayeth thee?  We shall supply!

As pitheads wind, so miners grind

Seek and follow, tunnels be low – passages of the great

Toil dawneth on me, forty winks be yearned

As we flock to the town

Of craftsmen, of blacksmiths, tailors assist

Technology equips, shoe last o’ stiff

Fine fettles are thee, inventions surpass

Full steam ahead!  Country be lead.

Of sheets, of rolls, printing amass

Fortunes be stirred, households back to back

Our cast-iron range, warmth to thy home

Fresh statuses arise, relieve former ties

Ambition abound, middle class be found

Boil water on the range, afore we bath

Of fresh produce, of luscious game, black pudding o’ delight

Shilling be spent, fill up thy churn

Horses’ clod on cobbled streets, ploughed fields, farmer’s relief

Leg thy narrow boat, steam locomotive, cut short thy duration

Better to tow, canal bank astride

The Victorian age, of history, of pride



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©