The chancellor got his wallet out
The chancellor got his wallet out
Could it be fate, that
at 11.06 a new king of the schoolyard was crowned ?
In a Hastings school conquest with the town folk watching
Harry saw his hopes and dreams shatter
into a hundred different pieces
over the tarmac floor
But unlike his namesake – he didn’t get any in his eye
Putting the bootlace back in his pocket
he sought reflection, under a nearby Horse chestnut tree
Maidens hearts fluttered as the crowd jumped and cheered
whilst lads in the playground greatly revered
the conker as hard as a diamond….
and its owner – William – the Conkeror!
A small note from inky…readers might be curious on the time in the piece….1066 transposed on a digital clock…and there’s 60 mins in an hour😉
Taken from merchant ships, by
Rascals of the seven seas
Every pirate worth their salty sea legs
Admires the prize of jewels, silver and gold doubloons
Some keep their precious horde hidden
Under tropical sands , deserted shores – only
Revealed many moons later by a younger
Explorer, following the pirates charts and maps
Eerie, by Brian F Kirkham
The most frightening thing about Halloween – Nothing’s going on!
No cars moving down main street
No children around saying “Trick or Treat”
Not a sound of a Movement in the midnight air
Look out of the window – there’s nobody there
but floating through air – the willow-the-wisp
telling tales of fairies in the sky cold and crisp
followed by friends of the cold dark wood
and you cant hear them sing – even though you should
the eeriest thing this whole Halloween
the most lifeless street that you’ve ever seen
27th February 2016
Recently i’ve been taking part in the Six Word Story Challenge run by one of my fellow bloggers Sometimes Stellar…
here’s the link :
This weeks challenge : A six worder on Anticipation – Here’s my Take on it
Chocolate Pudding for Afters – Can’t Wait!
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.