Burn

Camping, Fire, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry

Burn

the triangle a simple one

heat air and fuel

started by a little spark

amongst the smallest of shavings

 

Little flame eating

everything around it

kept at bay

by logs and bricks

 

Starting off slowly

the flames begin to grow

dining on everything near it

apart from the Billy can above

 

bread on a green stick

changes with the dancing flames

from dough to delight in seconds

with help from the makeshift grill

 

smells of the barbecue

rise in the air

as backwoods sausages

add fuel to the flames

 

light and warmth

dancing slowly in the moonlight

till all that are left

are the glowing impish coals

 

staff of life

the end of life

for the fire that maintained life

Round the campfire circle

 

 

Flagbreak

Camping, Cooking, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry

Unfurl

A summer morning, Worsley woods, west of Manchester

the sun just peaking through the nest of trees

circle of tents in various spots

and a scout leader starting the beginnings of an altar fire

little faces pop out of the niger tents to grab a view

breakfast served at 8 am sharp

but first, a mug of tea

some make a break for the toilet block

as sausage and eggy bread sizzle in a pan

orders given to the sous chef … he keeps his eye on the food

and slowly the camp leader makes his way to the pole

and all stand still in observance

the flag is released from its bonds

and flies high in the gentle breeze , proudly to attention

and all present give a salute

before breakfast is served

Unfurl

Acrostic, Camping, Character, Childhood, Outdoor Pursuits, Scouting, Scouts

Unfurl

17th August 2017

Middlewood scout camp, Worsley, Salford

UJG

Maybe it was

in the act of “doing our duty” that the

dedication of raising and lowering the union flag each

day at camp, reminded those

little or big, to “do their best”

even in the smallest of acts – from

washing the pots , to keeping their tent clean

over time, we’d learn a lot at that campsite – but we’d always

observe the traditions of flagbreak, each

day and evening

Good Companion

Camping, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry, Scouting

Been looking through my old notebooks again, and found a scribble in relation to the Orange One-Man Tent I was assigned during my time as a scouter with the 90th Salford.  The title of the poem relates to the name of the tent – which I slept in on campsites in Greater Manchester, Cheshire , Derbyshire and Cumbria.

image4023.jpg

Oh little resting place of mine
set among forest of green
lashed down on the grassland
in space of trees between.

Your A-Frame and Flysheet,
are a real treat,
against the clouds
you cannot be beat.

And under your flysheet is perfect,
for drying boots after ‘ hike
as raindrops drain down, into gully of brown
and one or two of your spikes

When midges arrive, you’re a cover –
whilst getting prepared for parade
and when sunshine is fierce and fiery
you provide the perfect shade.

Plenty of space for my camp kit
at head of my bag I will rest
and as I work and play, they’ll be safe all day
under the best cover in camp in the west

And when I seek you , out at night
your reflecting orange shines in torchlight
and as I rest my happy head
your canvas cover overlooks my bed.

They call you the “Good Companion”
The orange tent on forest ground
A place that is home for a scouter –
the best little tent all around.

Mountain Meadow

A Tale of Old Boots

A Tale of Old Boots

Camping, Character, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Scouting

These Boots Were Made for Walking

March 2011

In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. And if their owner were truthful – they could do with a bit of a clean.  The hooks holding the laces crusted with dirt, their leather is worn from the passing of time having seen many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.

But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.

Rugby Boots and Training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.

They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, and leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.

Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.

Good Companion

Camping, Outdoor Pursuits, Scouting

Oh little resting place of mine
set among forest of green
lashed down on the grassland
in space of trees between.

Your A-Frame and Flysheet,
are a real treat,
against the clouds
you cannot be beat.

And under your flysheet is perfect,
for drying boots after ‘ hike
as raindrops drain down, into gully of brown
and one or two of your spikes

When midges arrive, you’re a cover –
whilst getting prepared for parade
and when sunshine is fierce and fiery
you provide the perfect shade.

Plenty of space for my camp kit
at head of my bag I will rest
and as I work and play, they’ll be safe all day
under the best cover in camp in the west

And when I seek you , out at night
your reflecting orange shines in torchlight
and as I rest my happy head
your canvas cover overlooks my bed.

They call you the “Good Companion”
The orange tent on forest ground
A place that is home for a scouter –
the best little tent all around.

A Tale of Old Boots

Camping, Character, Description, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Prose, Tale, writing

In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. Their leather is worn from the passing of time and many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.

Now, Rugby boots and training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.

They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, observing the melodic snoring around them.  And leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.

And when they got home, they created a bit of a fuss. Left outside on the evening news on a step by the Garden lawn.  Local politicians now have the boots treadmarks of mud and clay imprinted on them.  But then again, wi’ these boots – they’ve no interest in politics – unless it’s rights to roam.  The bucket and wire brush look threatening, next to the bin.  But these boots know – you can scrub em till the cows come home – this mud sticks!

Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now – having had a ‘tidyup’ – they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.

Mountain Meadow

Good Companion

Fires a Burning

Camping, Outdoors, Scouts

Another piece for the daily post prompt

Smoke

also appears at http://allpoetry.com/poem/11670889-Fires-a-Burning-by-InkdropK

The sun went asleep, upon the moon break
and the light from a match began to awake
starting to burn the bark from a tree
whilst little one’s watch with their cuppas with glee

The bark it alights and begins to glow,
producing smoke as it burns the wood slow
small twigs surround the bark as it burns
fallen from trees amongst bushes and ferns

Flames round the wood, performing a dance
dancing towards night sky, given a chance
providing light, and heat for the camp
whilst heating the supper, in the cold and damp

And wood keeps on burning to feed this small fire
As tales are told round it to teach and inspire
and youngsters all smile as they receive with glee
a mug of steaming hot soup for their tea!