The Seven Deadly Sins – II

                    Gourmet Gordon

Public house all yeasty and evening warm

Local steps in, dripping rain from the storm,

Questing for Gordon that inclement day.

Out at “The Waltzing Weasel” the patrons did say

Consuming fine foods and wines with the Gourmet Club.

Better than eating burger and chips in the pub.

A grand institution of twelve men good and true

A lofty bracket above the likes of me and you.

A five course meal in restaurant in vogue

Once a month guest, upper crusst, no rogue

They’d puff on cigars, that made them look wise.

They told tall stories but never told lies.

Gordon would drink brandy from glasses so thin

And flirt with the waitresses with waists very slim.

Tasting langoustines and crab with Piri-piri sauce,

Cassoulet, duck confit and venison of course.

Tureen of turtle soup, timbali of rice, a red wine jus

Panna cotta, almond praline; dishes for them not for you.

After-hours jubilant return in taxis loud

Stroll into the pub all bloated and proud.

Order malt whiskies to be drunk by all

Laughter rings out in snug, stairs and hall.

A grand institution of twelve men good and true

A lofty bracket above the likes of me and you.

One evening after a banquet in “The Copper Kettle”

Gordon full of food slumped in sofa to settle

To a wee dram of his finest Cardhu

And perhaps a drop of Johnnie Walker Blue.

But his intention was frustrated and diverted

A sudden chest pain and to danger he was alerted.

Gordon realised that his drink was not to be

As he clutched his chest, his ribs, in agony.

He had no drugs, of pills not a one

In the grip of a massive fizzer; he was done.

His day was over, his life was led.

His friends were told that he was dead.

A grand institution of eleven men good and true

Who ate and drank so much more than me or you.

Martin Delemare

9^th November 2016

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      The Seven Deadly Sins – I

        The Perfect Marriage

Long drive through pedicured lawns,

Neatly trimmed trees and shrubs.

Her house a perfect period piece,

Mullioned windows, herring-bone chimneys.

Mercedes crunched on raked gravel.

Husband smiling beside the glass door

Her suit was immaculate

Her smile forever affable.

Cartier necklace professed her wealth

Smiles of spouse and silent children

Confirmed her happily married state.

Text messages and mobile calls

Linked her to her female friends,

Toning muscles in the local gym,

Afternoon tea, sushi in the riverside bar,

Risqué plays and Tai Chi in the park.

Nanny took care of the children

Andrew took care of their money.

Some calls were not quite as they’d seem

Not all were from Fiona, Celia or Nadeem.

Some calls rang with a deeper voice.

Then Adia would cheerfully wave good bye

To keep a clandestine tryst with Horace.

Like a tiny atom in a megaton bomb

Her scented note rested on the mantlepiece.

She had long gone, bags all prepacked

When Amdrew read the note; world destroyed.

Adia sat back in Horace’s private jet

Eating beluga caviar and sipping Krug

On final approach to the Caribbean runway

And his luxury beach retreat in Tobago.

 

Yes, her youth and stunning good  looks

And Horace’s billions; a perfect marriage.

Martin Delemare

9^th November 2016

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River Dee

               The Ferryman

 

Cormorant flew low over the brackish water.

Fergal Moon’s eyes pierced the far bank,

Coat collar raised against the bitter wind

Blowing upriver from the wild saltmarsh.

 

Current lazily spun old spiles and spars

With decaying detritus from the winter spate.

Fergal skilfully sculled his wooden craft,

Avoiding shifting, shallow sand bars.

Bent his back to the heavy oar

To reach the jetty on the mud-lined shore.

 

They shuffled along the slimy plank

With chickens, goat and frying pan,

Each with coin to pay the ferryman.

In boat moored tight he idly sat

Watching coins tossed into his hat.

 

Kingfisher’s electric flash of blue

Against dawn’s clouded orange hue.

Wave rocked from the stormy blow

Bow pushed out into the river’s flow,

Heading for huts and homes on the opposite shore.

 

A lever of hand-polished oak wood

Proud of the sturdy gunwale stood.

Fergal fingered the coins in pocket safe

Stared at this lever of polished oak.

 

A stretch – to grip and yank

Heave ho! And in you go!

Seven souls irretrievably sank

Into waters dark and chill, such woe!

Seven souls lost to the surge and the undertow.

 

In his pocket he clinked his coins

Plotted his course out past the wooden groynes.

Fergal’s grin showed a toothless gap

For he was proud of his cunning trap.

You may come with chickens, goat and frying pan

But never, never ever pay that ferryman.

 

Martin Delemare

4^th October 2016

 

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Lanner falcon

                 Judas

Not for me the wine or tasty cuppa

No, not for me at that last supper.

I am not a ball on the simnal cake

For I, I made a big mistake.

Oh Lord, Saviour of all

I wander alone, big downfall.

I am the traitor clear

But no forgiveness, not here.

Blessed is he that commeth

In the name of the Lord.

Cursed is me that goeth

An outcast from the heavenly hoard.

Martin Delemare

18^th March 2016

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