OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 11 March 1933, Page 16 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

SUMMER CLOCKS. (Sent by Joyce Perring.) We blow the summer clocks away, Upon the summer air; One, two —and when it comes to three We know it’s nearly time for tea. We watch them as they float away, Upon the summer air; They tell us of the close of day And when it’s time to stop our play. A SKYLARK SINGING. (Sent by Ronald Parker.) Why does the skylark sing at dawn, As upward she is winging, Does early morning hold a charm That makes for sweeter singing? And for what reason does she fly So far beyond our vision; Does morning see the skylark On a very special mission? I think it does for I have heard That though the skylark uses The earth below to lay her eggs, For safety’s sake she chooses To make a nest within the sky, Secure, from prying stranger, Where she can keep her baby larks And know they’re free from danger. What sweeter song then could she sing Than with the sun a-dawning. Her upward flight to reach the sky And kiss her babes “Good-morning”? THE CHAMOIS. (Sent by Celia Murdoch.) The chamois jumps from rock to rock Where you or I would fall; And yet he’s never known to miss His balance on a precipice And doesn’t mind at aIL The chamois climbs from peak to peak, And covers miles of ground, And every chamois worth his salt. Can even turn a somersault And come up safe and sound. The chamois loves to jump about, But in captivity He hasn’t anything to do* And stands dejected at the Zoo; Let’s go and set him free. MY BLACK CAT. (Sent by Eva Gulliver.) My black cat is a witch’s cat, She stays with me all day; She has her meals, I'm glad of that, Then, no matter how cosy I make her mat, At night she steals away. She meets the witch in a haunted glade Deep in the gloomy wood; They sit by the fire that the witch has made, And whisper of bad things, Pm afraid— Certainly nothing good. Then up they get and ride the skies, Holding the broomstick tight. No wonder my cat has sleepy eyes! It comes, says Mother, who’s very wise, Of broomstick riding at night. THE STRANGEST SIGHT. (Sent by Zephne Lepper.) When I was out the other night, I saw the very strangest sight— A flying mouse with silken wings; The prettiest of little things. They tell me it is only a bat, But I know better far than that; It was a fairy aeroplane— I hope I shall see one again. WENDY’S WALNUT. (Sent by Joan Feakins.) Wendy cracked a walnut, Threw the shell away; Crept a tiny pixie Up to where it lay. “Just the boat I wanted,” Wendy heard him say—- “ Thank you, little Wendy,” And he sailed away. LOVELY LADY. (Sent by Marjorie Ure.) I am a lovely lady, I live in a tower by the sea; Behind the tower are enchanted hills, In front is a meadow of daffodils, And a little pink almond tree. I have seventy chests of treasure, With seventy jewelled locks, Fans and perfumes and silken shawls, A set of carven ivory balls, And a painted musical box. I have three pretty maids-in-waiting: Mavis, and Minnie and Merle; They dance on the grass in their spangled shoon, While a little brown piper plays a time On a flute of silver and pearL I am a lovely lady; If you will come over the hills You shall hear the song of the musical box, You shall have the keys of the seventy locks, And a bunch of my daffodils. —Rose Fyleman. LITTLE CHILDREN. (Sent by Jack Coatsworth.) Little children make a clatter, Always something is the matter, Shriek and shout and bang and noise Follow little girls and boys; Many an angry word is spoken, Many a youthful brawl or riot, Interrupts the hour of quiet. Little children in a dwelling Oft indulge in needless yelling, There’s a trail of cookie crumbs, Smudgy fingers, smudgy thumbs, Muddy feet, and toys discarded, Howsoe’er the home is guarded, Constant scolding and forgiving Where the little ones are living. Little children keep you busy Picking up until you’re dizzy; There’s no end. it seems, unto All the things you have to do. And in spite of your endeavour, Still disorder reigns forever, Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Any day the home is untidy. Right you are, oh weary mother! But I’ll take you to another House where all is strangely ‘still, Where no racket ever will Set its owners to complaining; And where order ppm is reigning, Lovely house! But could you bear it If you have no child to share it? LOST TIME. (Sent by Zita Lowe.) Timothy took his tune to school— Plenty of time he took; But some he lost in the tadpole pool, And some in the stickleback brook; Ever so much in the linnet’s nest, And more on the five-barred gate. Timothy took his time to school, But he lost it all and was late. Timothy has a lot to do— How shall he find the time? Why. he didn’t reach home till close on two, Though he might have been back by one. There are sums and writing, and spelling, too, And an apple tree to climb, Timothy has a lot to do— How shall he find the time? Timothy sought it high and low; He looked in the tadpole pool to see If they’d taken the time to grow, That he lost on the way to school. He found the nest, he found the tree, And he found the gate he’d crossed, But Timothy never will find (ah, me!) The tijne that Timothy lost. z