Thoughts of flying home

The thoughts of flying home again are killing me,
Another endless stretch of work and rain.
Every fibre of my soul is willing me
To take the brash decision to remain.
Deep down though, I know well it can’t be done,
Although the harsh realities are filling me
With despair that I can’t stay here in the sun,
However hard imagination’s grilling me.

The thoughts of flying home again are killing me.
Blank depression’s all that has survived.
The prospect has been resolutely chilling me
Ever since the day that we arrived.
I feel the urge to pack a case and run.
Responsibilities, alas! are stilling me
And so I’ll merely stretch out in the sun.
The thoughts of flying home again are killing me

Rethymnon lighthouse waltz

At the end of the pier,
Where few tourists go
In the mad Cretan heat,
O’er the waters so clear
That languidly flow
To bathe his tired feet,

He stands tall and straight
With a big toothless grin
On his world-weary face,
Watching tourists and freight
Purring out, purring in,
Past his thick sturdy base.

His old grey tin cap –
Does it nod to the bucks
In their bright fancy gear
That now hold the map
And the maritime books
On the opposite pier?

Does his mind flicker back
To empirical times
When he stood proud and strong,
Shining forth in the black,
With his nautical chimes
Chanting loud the old song?

In his mind, does he hear
The victorious crow
Of the large Turkish fleet?
At the end of the pier,
Where few tourists go
In the mad Cretan heat...

Ravine

A ravine or a gorge or a gully?
The Cretans don’t seem to know which.
The difference admittedly’s woolly.
How do you describe a large ditch?

Poolside brilliance

With a leap and a bound,
He sprang off the ground
And dived in with joy unrestrained.
Universal acclaim!
It was only a shame
He’d not realised the pool had been drained.

Kate and the dragonfly

The serried mountain massif
Stood inscrutably impassive.
The sun was hot though afternoon was late.
Upon the lake, relaxing,
We did nothing that was taxing
Till a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.

The size of a small sparrow,
It flew at her like an arrow,
And caused Miss Lawless to become irate.
All around her, it went buzzin’,
Likely calling for its cousin,
This huge dragonfly that buzzed around poor Kate.

Was she being battered?
Well the evening calm was shattered
With yells and shrieks too awful to relate.
She was screaming out blue murder,
Even distant farmers heard ‘er
When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.

Well the pedalo was rocking
It was tilting something shocking
As all her jigging distributed weight.
And Emmet had no wishes
To be swimming with the fishes
When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.

The fish beneath the waters
Called out to their sons and daughters
“Dinner will be soon served on a plate!”
All the baby fish came tumbling,
Their little bellies rumbling,
When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.

‘Twas like assault and battery
Committed in a cattery
Or a banshee shrieking loudly to its mate.
Far away in West Darjeeling
People wondered “What’s that squealing?”
When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.

On the mountain, rocks came falling,
The destruction was appalling,
With towns submerged by limestone, shale and slate.
All the traffic was diverted
And the Red Cross was alerted
When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.

In the White House, they suspected
That the decibels projected
Could only come from en’mies of the state.
The fighter planes were scrambled
As the Secret Service gambled
‘Twas no dragonfly just buzzing after Kate.

And then suddenly, it vanished,
As by Royal Ordnance banished
And the anguished howls ceased to reverberate.
Once again great peace descended
On the lake so calm and splendid
On the day a dragonfly buzzed after Kate.

The short stubby finger syndrome

It’s the short, stubby finger syndrome
When your fingers grow chunky and fat.
In hot sunny climes,
It happens sometimes
That you can’t hold a pen
When you think of good rhymes,
And that, says the saying, is that.

The jewellery shops of Rethymnon

In Rethymnon in Northern Crete,
There’s jewellery shops on every street.
In fact I’d say each second shop
Would make the jewel-eyed shopper stop
And point at watches, brooches, rings
And other bright and shiny things.
Such is the amount, I’ve often thought
How the market can support
So many stores all selling bling.
But yet the singing tills all ring!
‘Tis clear to anyone who cares
To wander down her thoroughfares,
The town’s prosperity is fuelled
By all these shops so brightly jewelled.
Thus, borrowing a phrase of old,
The streets are truly paved with gold.