Return to Ventnors' Shore

Ventnor on the Isle of Wight,
once a gem; a shining light.
A fashionable health resort had grown
'round a climate of its own,
'neath it's chalky downland hill,
said could cure many an ill.

The Southern Railway used to run
the 'well to do' for sea and sun,
the trains from Ryde did take them down
to 'Ventnor West' and 'Ventnor Town'.
To fill hotels; fill beaches too,
doing what was 'good for you!'
Taking the air; swim in the sea,
Ventnor was the place to be!

The beach to which Victorians thronged
now time and tide; both have wronged.
It was the 'Londoners' place to be,
they called it "Mayfair by the sea!"
Ventnors' current streets I feel
are looking a little down at heel.
The days of steamers at the pier,
day trippers all; come nowhere near.

If on the Isle; head Ventnors way,
don't listen to what others say!
Stand on the beach; what's that you hear,
is that a steamer sailing near?
Are the stations full of trains?
Are we curing aches and pains?

For when we all can fly no more,
we will return to Ventnors shore!


An M.P's reply:
"You are not getting me to
name him!" Me: "GO ON!"


A gardening outfit required.
A "never to be seen in the outside world again" outfit,
a beyond old outfit,
a perfect for gardening outfit!
Spade and wellies from the shed,
kneeling pad for my poor old knees,
big rake,
and look out garden for here I come!

Soon the soil stains are everywhere.
Hands have turned a redish brown,
my nose has a redish brown stain where I itched it,
and sweat is blurring my glasses.
Nobody told me gardening was such hard work!
Take step or two back to admire my handy work,
catch my breath.
Nearly done.
One last look and imagine it this time next year.

Time to put the spade, trowl and wellies away.
Bath time,
boy is it bath time!
The sort of Bath time where you need to wash your hands before you get in!

Oooooooh! Hot water on my shoulders.
Work your magic!
Grab the nail brush to remove the one half of the garden which ended up under my nails.

...Time for lunch.

Twenty's Plenty!

Twenty's plenty
Thirty's shirty!
Fourty is naughty
Fifty is nifty,
Sixty is too quicksty,
and seventy is basic'lly
as fast as you need to go!

I Must Go Down To The Sea Again

(With a 'nod' to John Measefield's poem "Sea Fever")

I must go down to the sea again
at one with boats; to be again,
and walk the shore,
to be once more,
'midst crashing waves; and free again!

I must go down to the sea again
the clouds; the sky with thee again.
Holding your hand,
along the sand,
with love a guarantee again!

The waves along the harbour wall,
the boats in time do rise and fall.
Skippers readying boats inside,
for morning; catch the early tide!

So I must go down to the sea again
to let my soul be free again,
to be at one
with sea and sun,
a rhythm there in me again.