As regular readers will know my old dad was a bit of character. He had a long list of silly ditties and odes, one of which was brought to mind by another blogger recently in connection with the turn of the seasons into spring.
SPRING HAS SPRUNG
THE GRASS IS RIZ,
I WONDER WHERE THE BIRDIE IS?
THE BIRD IS ON THE WING!
BUT THAT’S ABSURD
THE WING IS ON THE BIRD.
And in turn that led to
TWAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
THE ROADS WERE DRY AND CLE
AND I WAS WALKING BACKWARDS
TO THE PLACE WHERE I HAD BEEN;
AND SUDDENLY I SAW A NOISE,
STOOD ON MY FACE
THERE IT WAS
IT CAME AGAIN
I DID THE SPLITS
AHD FIFTEEN FITS
AND LEFT MYSELF WITH ME.
My youth was dotted with poetry both classical and nonsensical. Kipling to the fore but many many others. As we hit spring and I think about the burgeoning countryside, one comes to mind. Dad loved this as an evocation of a countryside he loved and feared was disappearing. Oh to write poetry like Kipling, eh?
THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS by Rudyard Kipling
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.
Did you have bequeathed to you poems? Silly or sensible?