A Night at the Orchid.

Those that grew up in South East London, or that corner of Surrey and Kent in the 50s, 60, or 70s will probably remember the lure of the dancehalls and later disco’s. Places like, ‘The Orchid Ballroom,’ (later to become ‘Tiffany’s’) in Purley, Surrey, a regular haunt and meeting place on a Friday or Saturday night for thousands of young people. Perhaps for some of you who do remember, this may ring a few bells. This particular evening was in July 1974.

A Night at the Orchid

The band is playing the music is loud
the Orchid is buzzing, it’s got a good crowd.
Disco lights flashing all over the place
throw splashes of purple and green on each face.
Dancers gyrating all over the floor,
the number ends and they call for more.

Men are in suits and girls in their glad rags,
dancing in couples, or just around handbags.
I’m at the bar with a glass in my hand,
looking in awe at this great wonderland,
hoping perhaps that soon I might see
a girl on her own who might dance with me.

Oh she looks gorgeous, just there, by the wall,
with lovely dark hair and she’s not very tall.
I’d like to ask her, but don’t think I dare,
I’ll have to be careful, it’s rude to stare.
I think she’s seen me, now was that a smile?
I bet if I ask her she’ll run a mile.

My heart beats faster my mouth is so dry,
my legs won’t move, but I do want to try.
I’m almost there now, it should be OK.
She can only say no, but what do I say?
I‘m going to ask her, I will take a chance.
‘Excuse me, but… Would you like to dance?’

She did say yes and we danced for a while,
and me? I was simply lost in her smile.
Then much later on when the band played slow
when the night was late and the lights were low.
It was then that I held her close and tight
in the long slow dance that ends the night.

Our evening, it ended in perfect bliss
we fixed a first date and shared a first kiss.
The Orchid has gone now. The band retired
all quite unaware of what had transpired.
They never knew of the change to my life,
that because of them, I had just met my wife.

Lessons of War.

This was inspired by the classroom scene in the film version of ‘All Quiet on the Western Front.’

Lessons of War.

Back before Christmas, I told them,
in the classroom, before they left home.
Your country needs, you!
I pointed, at young Thomas Ross,
his face, flushed red, and you,
and you, at Clarke and Smith.

At Clarke and Smith, whose speed and strength
had graced the first fifteen
so freely they gave their attention,
their faces etched with enthusiasm.
not fear, but adventure, at the end of term.
All three, they listened, intent.

They listened, intent, and I sent them
Clarke and Smith and Ross.
They shook my hand and departed,
I watched as they marched to the station,
I waved and I cheered with pride,
as they disappeared in the steam.

As they disappeared, in the steam
like the hundreds that followed behind them
until now, I’m alone in the classroom
with their voices echoing round me,
Clarke, and Smith, and Ross.
Too late for the lessons of war

To Winterfold Forest

I grew up in the one of the wilder parts of what is now known as the Surrey Hills, an area of outstanding natural beauty. So when asked on the course OU A215 to write an alliterative love poem that did not relate to a person, the choice for me was easy.

To Winterfold Forest

I will return to your wild woodlands
where the beech and birch trees grow.
I’ll roam your steep and sandy paths,
as I used to, long ago.

Again I’ll sit under ageing oaks,
safe from the sun, in the shade,
and lean my back on brittle bark
as the feisty fox cubs play.

I’ll hear the rooks in your ancient elms
as they squabble and squawk in the sky
building their nests of tangled twigs,
there I’ll pause, as I’m passing by.

I’ll fill my lungs with forest air,
feel my feet on your fallen leaves,
rest under pines where pigeons roost
and feathers float down on the breeze.

Up high on the hills where trees are thin
and the silver birch shines white,
crisp brown bracken snaps underfoot
and the adder slides from sight.

It’s here on your heather covered ridge
where Surrey spreads wide below,
along those badger burrowed slopes
are the places I love and know.

Freddie’s Lament.

For most of my life I have shared homes with a succession of cats, mostly strays or orphans, who, the moment they crossed the threshold, assumed total ownership of the property. Our latest rescue cat is no exception, although intelligent he has yet to put pen to paper but if he did I’m sure it would go something like this.

Freddie’s Lament

My human is ungrateful,
he doesn’t understand,
although I try to please him
and rub against his hand.
He feeds me well
and I can tell
in some ways he’s quite kind.
The problem is however
he has not, a feline mind.

A feline is a hunter.
and I thought that he would know,
that when it isn’t raining,
then a-hunting I must go.
I take myself across the field
and patiently I wait,
beneath the hedge,
in the long grass,
sometimes until quite late.

I lay there still and silent,
just waiting for my prey.
I’m usually successful,
and something comes my way,
a vole, a shrew, a mouse.
and then… my lightning pounce!

So then with care, I cart it back
across the fields to home.
I lug it through the cat flap
but of course I should have known,
he won’t show appreciation,
I’m just greeted with a shout.
‘Freddie don’t you drop it there!
You take that thing back out.’