On the beach

                  Clinker Built

Hugged the chilly shingle shore lapping

Through the dense, morning fog chugging

Passing groynes, poles, posts and more

Particles cold to the beard clinging

To the bowler and balaclava we wore.

Rotting clinker built boat, Seagull engine puttering

Dirty fuel and feeble spark, Seagull engine spluttering

Split gunwales, rusty rowlocks, diving bags,

Pungent petrol vapour and greasy, oily rags

And boards sun-bleached soapy light

A frail craft heading for the Isle of Wight.

Stopped beside the stone sentinel round

Marvelled at this relic of Napoleonic times,

Listening for the modern dangers that abound

Nostrils flared, ears keen, eyes peeled.

No wave slap, no seabird squawk, not a sound.

A hoot!

Hark!

Distant warning.

Thick fog obscured view, a thick curtain

Held us in our own damp wraparound

Suppressed little marine world, certain

We were not safe; oh so vulnerable

From the Argonaut, juggernaut, tankernaut

Cyclops blundering along busy sea lanes distraught.

A vast grey tonnage above us loomed

Towering high, like a telephoto zoomed.

Dragged aside, made ragged our foggy veil, flimsy

Bulbous nose thrusting through the dim sea

Ghosting a furrow through the Solent.

Engine started, we turned from the bow wave

Only to turn again, our little boat to save.

Waited in that tanker’s wake.

Out to Bembridge Ledge we started to head

A section of the journey that held our dread.

Martin Delemare

12^th October 2011

The Old Lady from Bodiam

There was an old lady from Bodiam

Who wheeled a sheep around in a pram.

When she tired of this ewe

It went in a stew

So now she’ll be buying a lamb.

Martin Delemare

26^th October 2011

Marrakech

100 Watt

What no bulbs of a 100 watt?

What no bulbs bright and hot?

This supermarket is no good to me

I want instant light, don’t you see?

No, I don’t want curls.

No, I don’t want swirls.

I want bulbs of a 100 watt

I want bulbs bright and hot.

Not low energy slow murk

Stumbling about like a burk.

I want bulbs of a 100 watt.

I’ll go round to the corner shop

They buy bulbs, not this rot.

No low energy bulbs with mercury

They buy their bulbs from far Turkey.

They buy bulbs by the job lot

They buy bulbs bright and hot.

This supermarket is no good to me.

What no bulbs of a 100 watt?

I want instant light don’t you see.

I want bulbs bright and hot

I want bulbs of a 100 watt.

Martin Delemare

24^th November 2011

Midnight

Crop Spraying

Evening air was often filled with sound

So full so rich, Merlin engine roared

Across our sky, Spitfire homeward bound.

But this was something new to see

Dropped over hedge, dropped over tree

Flew under power lines and things

Streamed white fluid from its wings.

It sprayed the crops that did grow

Down in our marsh, up on our hill.

It was no wonder that in later life

Many folks, old and young grew ill.

Martin Delemare

14^th October 2008

Extract from "Marsh Quarter"

    Billy’s Song

I had a leg, I had a leg

In days long gone by.

In those conflict days, I had a leg

But I was far too careless

With my legs I was too reckless

For I took my legs off to war.

No boat upon the water, nor in the air on wing

But on land for slaughter, fighting for the king.

Battle raged, smoke’s black drift

Bullets whined, shells rent and rift

I fought whole and frail that bloody day

Shrapnel flew; it tore my leg away.

I knew that peace has price, has cost.

Now I just say, my leg was lost.

Martin Delemare

1^st March 2009

Extract from "Marsh Quarter"

Diggers

Dig it wide, dig it deep,

Extra work for extra cash.

Heft that pick, shoulder that shovel.

Amble through the headstones grey

Watched by heathered hills,

Watched by carrion crows.

Dig it wide, dig it deep,

Extra cash for extra work.

Orders were clear and crystal

But rocks were hard and rough.

Day job called and glue-pot pub.

Time passed, tock ticked off.

Needed work and needed time.

But day arrived not fine

Undertaker inspected and frowned.

Line of weepers wound across

The ancient bone yard toward

Their handicraft covered green.

Words said and soil scattered

Coffin lowered, respectfully slow.

A hitch! All ushered rapidly away.

Anger boiled as diggers were

Summoned back to fresh grave

And angled coffin stuck so fast.

No, not up! Need exhumation order.

Dig it quick, keep it neat.

Extra work to keep the cash.

Standing on the lid they hacked,

They chopped and scraped away

Till at last it slumped

To find its drunken rest,

An idiosyncratic plant.

Thin faced and bulging eyes

Rapid tongue told them plain

No more work, nor cash

Not here nor circle wide,

No graveyards for this pair

Of moonlighting, apprentice diggers.

Martin Delemare

16^th May 2007

Extract from "Los Muertos"