A Night in the Life of the Ragetown Manager

'Where rage consumes, nothing remains.'
The Sunset Vagabond

On the night of the rage
the manager of Ragetown
takes to his bunker
under the clock tower.

He sits in a rigid chair,
his pinstriped suit threadbare,
his glasses newly cleaned,
his hair a bramble thicket,
his eyes a pale lime.

Rumours say he's been in charge since childhood,
when he arrived on the train by accident
and never left.
If he has a name
he's never spoken it.

He sits in a purple armchair,
monitoring the rage's progress
from the comfort of serenity.
Frenetic servants scuttle about
to whom he dictates which fresh chaos
should be unleashed next,
all the while his suit turns wrinkled,
his glasses shining like morning dew.

At first light he emerges,
his suit reeking, and the lingering
wake of the rage greets him.
The manager wipes his glases clean
with his untouched white handkerchief.

Super Bat

It hides in its roost
by a stream in the day.

The moths gather in the gloom.

Sonar is a society norm
among those winged hunters.

Detecting their prey with pin-point
proficiency in the dark.

The moths flutter through the leaves.

The long-eared hunter takes off,
no radar to guide it.

Just the rush and thrum
of a moth's wing-beat

can guide it on course.

The Oath of Rhain

This is the oath of the hunter,
these are the terms set in place,
that he may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.

Rhain, known to all as the Reaper,
countless are those I have slain.
My prey cannot outrun their fate
from the moment they hear my name.

I shall chase them to the world's edge,
my pursuit will never case.
Through the wind, the snow and the fire
nevermore will my prey know peace.

I shall bring my trophies to bear
and my task will be complete,
for I will not be eluded
I will never be dealt defeat.

This is the oath of the hunter,
these are the terms set in place,
that I may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.

Ragetown

There's a town out there
where few people go,
surrounded by a battered steel wall,
a gnarled and twisted gate.
Open to a single train.

The train arrives
at dusk,
and newcomers
enter Ragetown
through the carriage windows
or kick down the doors.
Ticket barriers are made
to be vaulted.

The streets ignite
after dark
with unadulterated pandemonium.
People choose their weapons
insensibly
as is the way of the rage.
The signal is a body
hurled through a bar window.

Mobs flood the main square
and the rage takes hold.

The fighting erupts,
blossoms into a no-holds barred brawl,
an incandescent blur of madness.

People unleash their fists and teeth,
some armed with cutlery and gardening tools.
Someone sprints through the chaos
waving a mace above their head,
another whisks their victim's face
into crimson abstract artistry.
A would-be chainsaw massacrist
caught in a flamethrower's blaze.

Windows shattered,
walls torn asunder,
houses flaming ruins,
streets obliterated,
the bank demolished
by an enthusiastic demolisher
with weapon's grade wrecking ball.
The bank manager
flings his cash as arrows,
then is flung into the next street.

Heads smacked against doors,
tables dismembered with knives and forks.

The road rage arrives.

Cars screech,
flail around in the dust.
Skulls and bodies
crushed under tyres
as a bus slams
into the steel wall
while lorries smash and crash,
horns ring down the roads.
A solitary woman in a trolley
careens through the mayhem.

The rage subsides
and the streets fall silent.
Only when the light returns,
it reveals the wreck of Ragetown
smouldering in the glare.

NaPoWriMo #30: The Spring Tiger

In the shade of the sal trees by the silent grass
where the chital and the sambar grass en-mass
sits the ruler of the lakes keeping watch
while a butterfly rests on her tawny shoulders.

The tigress watches pairs of spotted stags
prancing and posturing side by side,
paying their usual menace no heed
for the monkeys keep watch on her

until they turn their back to the trees
and the mother of the maidens disappears,
stripes distorting her amidst the grass
as a ghost with white-spotted ears.

She lunges out from the nothingness
and the stag crashes to the earth,
teeth embedded in his throat
while alarm calls flood the forest.

NaPoWriMo #29: Herring Feast

A lone spout on the rolling sea,
towering above the surf.
The first signal of a great summer feast
and the first dinner guests start arriving.

The spouts billow out from the waves
followed by flukes breaking the water
like banners for the rest of the pod
directing them to the shoal.

The ring of bubbles rises,
a circle formed in the depths,
a net with no rope or mesh
in which the herring jostle.

The cavalcade of whales erupts,
mouths agape as though calling,
engulfing the school in unison,
gorging on the plentiful bounty

before turning and descending
into the ocean blue once more
to lay their trap anew
and relish the summer currents.

NaPoWriMo #28: Matriarch

Just when it seems the drought is at its end,
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.

The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.

An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.

The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.

NaPoWriMo #27: Song for Home

Five tries, two conversions,
the statistics required
to unleash mayhem onto the streets.

They flood out of the stadium,
pour through the side streets
into every pub in town,
singing to the sky beyond the rafters.

In the railway station
the pigeons start awake in their roosts
as the thunder of a thousand footsteps
rumbles up onto the platform.

A cross-city trains slithers alongside,
every carriage a battleground
filled to the brim like fishermen's nets
and hauled to cities beyond the hills

reverberating with drunken choruses
along every mile of darkening rail
while the city sings into the night.

NaPoWriMo #26: A Fox and a Bulldog

The fox forages on the open field,
eyes turned from the glare of sunlight,
black clouds swirling ahead.

He digs through the furrows,
hoping treasure lies beneath his paws
while rooks shadow him from the hedges.

White tail-tip swishing behind him,
the fox spots something emerging
from the hedgerows, scattering the rooks.

Short and barrel-shaped, lolling tongue,
wide face and button nose,
the bulldog tumbles out of the leaves.

Never has the sharp-nosed fox
seen something so ungainly
as the bewildered beast before him.

As the bulldog approaches, smiling,
the fox appears to cough, then chuckle,
and the rooks watch on from the hedges.

NaPoWriMo #25: Lava Flow

Mountain of fire, overlooking the sea,
snow cascading down the spurs,
occasional steam from the crater,
a reminder to the town in its shadow
that the mountain sleeps for now.

Sometimes the ground rumbles
and the crater belches sparks,
flecks in a royal blue sky
as the caldera simmers miles
under the seaside town.

The fire thunders from the mantle,
cascades above the peak in a wave,
while the molten flows smother
the groves, hissing and glowing
as the rock cools into new crust.

New shoots burst forth
from under the mountain's new skin,
the olives fester on the young trees
and the mountain resumes its slumber
till the caldera boils over again.

NaPoWriMo #24: Return of Spring

And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree,
watching as one season gives way to another.

Watching as the skeletal brown
turns to green, and the treetops

are now alive with birdsong.
Thrushes, finches, tits and robins

conjure up a chorus
of incessant cheer.

In the pond below the dove's perch
sits a chamber orchestra of frogs

all croaking in harmonic baritones
complimenting the treetop choir

heralding in the long days
and the longer sunsets.

And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree
singing as spring returns to the forest.

NaPoWriMo #23: Rivers of Coal

Up in the hills where the collieries sleep,
where the railway tracks are submerged in moss,
the wheels atop the tower seem to weep
the stones in the blacksmith's yard are all glossed
in a dwindling frost fleeing from the spring.
Caverns beneath the hills vast and still,
adorning the grey cliffs to which they cling,
sheltering sheep against the mountain chill.
The descendants live in the past's shadow
claim the ruins for their own, make them new,
no longer the halls where molten fires flow
but a monument to the mining crew.
Within these hills run the rivers of coal
that brought to the valleys their heart and soul

(And so, to celebrate the birthday of his majesty the Shakespeare, I bring you a sonnet about that most familiar of Welsh subjects.)

NaPoWriMo #22: Eggs of Time

Six eggs scattered in the halls of the past,
one for the beasts that ruled before man,
one for creatures frozen in a silent forest,
one for the statues carved from marble,
one for the tomb of the slumbering whale,
one for the tropical forest of giant dragonflies,
one for the hall of the dancing colours.
All lie in wait till the first light
their shells sport hairline cracks,
the first signs of a new birth,
windows to the past, the present and the future
waiting for those who go looking
and gaze upon the wonders of the world.

(So this one managed to be even more surreal that yesterday's. I tried to give this a vaguely Eastery feeling, but once again something different emerged.)

NaPoWriMo #21: Letters in the Dark

The tunnel cloaked in darkness
less solemn than it seems.
Lines left on the bricks,
luminous bursts swooping up
to the ceiling in a neon flare.

Contorted, distorted, obscure
yet far from indecipherable,
lighting up the whole tunnel
as trains rumble overhead
and water drips from the ceiling.

Swirls forming letters against the bricks
in glittering gold, pristine purple
and incandescent green,
illumination in the shade
and dazzled pigeons on the overhang.

A message to be read
in the curves and twists
made by faceless artists in the hours of starlight,
the hours where the letters
speak the loudest.

(So this poem was initially inspired by the daily prompt from NaPoWriMo, suggesting to write a surrealist poem inspired by Federico García Lorca, but this piece evolved into something much different to what I had in mind originally.)

NaPoWriMo #20: Sibilance

Silently sitting on a stone,
singing songs of sorrow and woe,
seething with symptoms of sanguine symphonies
of soaring skylines and scorching savannahs,
searing sentinels on stony statues,
silent as souls surrounded by shame
and the savage set-piece of sharks in the sea
slicing seals and soliciting sneers
from sinuous sardines who see but don't smile,
sinuses of snakes suffocated by soot,
all in sundry and sonatas,
sonnets strung simultaneously
as it seems in a single sentence.

NaPoWriMo #19: Firestorm

Single spark,
gust of air,
scorching soil
ignited by chance,
whipped up into a blur of a flame
ascending into a column
tall as the tallest jungle trees,
a furnace consuming the green
above and below
where the creepers crisp
and the branches burn
and the inferno engulfs
the canopy and the roots,
every animal for a thousand miles
runs, slithers, flies and gallops
for the edge of the jungle,
but the fire's wrath redoubles
the blaze pursues the denizens,
leaving clouds of ash and rubble behind
till the flames meet the river
and the scalding hot thirst is quenched.

NaPoWriMo #18: Tapestry

It's all captured here.

All written down,

all embroidered in stitching

as a song,

an eternal tale of war

told across millenniums

of three kings and three battles,

soldiers head to toe in suits of chain mail,

horses' hooves churning the mud,

shields feathered with arrows.

A time where any one action

could severe any thread

and the tapestry would unravel.

Yet all of it remains here,

the formations, the marches,

the victories, the defeats,

the conquest and the dominion,

the fall and the coronation.

NaPoWriMo #17: The Angry Bee

There's a cat in the garden
and its chasing me
along the fence
I could just sting
but make no pretense
I will use it
in defence,
my last kamikaze
will be no use to me
if the cat gets away
Scott free
or is it Charlie free?
I can never be sure
but maybe I should
maybe I should just sting
the mewling ball of fluff
those claws aren't worth much
against the wrath of a hive.

NaPoWriMo #16: Horses on the Road

A pair of horses trotting
along a narrow country road.
Higher than the hedges,
with views sheep and pigs crave,
taking in the spring fields
flourishing with renewed greenery.

The riders steer their steeds
past the hedges
and over the crossroads.
The clip-clop of their shoes
on sun-baked tarmac,
a familiar percussion
in the usual farmyard tune.

Cows and sheep line the fields
as the two mares pass,
eyeing the riders with bemusement.
The barn beckons up ahead,
with the promise of fresh hay.

Chickens and geese herald the mares,
a cacophony of honks, quacks and chattering.
No other denizen of the farm
gets to tour the lanes.
A foal leans over a gate,
watches the celebration in the yard,
dreams of the day
when he'll roam the roads.

NaPoWriMo #15: A Tiger's Soliloquy

To what ends must I go
for the safety of my jungle home?
How far should I travel?
How many foes must I face?
Throw them back across my borders
or wallow in disgrace.
I thought the jackals an annoyance,
the wolves worthy rivals
and the infernal dhole a pestilence,
but the bipedal apes with their brazenness
and their fire-spitting weapons,
when they infringe on the jungle,
the combined strength of all my kin
cannot withstand their onslaught.
They slaughter and pillage
wherever they appear,
and I sit perched atop an ancient ruin
ensnared by creepers and vines
watching as their fires engulf the grass,
the trees, the gorges, encircle the waterholes.
The chital, the sambar, the langurs, the boar
all flee across the maidans to the hills,
and I can only prepare for the last bout
as the clever primates converge on my stronghold
and the jungle blazes into the night.

(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo website to write a poem in the form a dramatic monologue in the manner of Robert Browning or William Shakespeare. Never heard of a tiger giving a monologue before, but maybe now we have some insight into what that voice would sound like.)

NaPoWriMo #14: Grand Old Boar of the Dean

The forest harbours many

a strange thing.

From the ghost deer

on the bordering fields,

to the fire squirrels

in the strangling branches. 

Then there are the boar.

The great sounders saunter through the trees,

rooting out roots and bulbs,

the treasure under the soil,

with tusk and hooves

while the white-striped piglets

huddle in the shadow

of a weary old elm.

Grand Old Boar of the Dean,

seen many a challenger approach,

and sent them all fleeing.

Many a hunter took a shot,

just one made a near-miss,

skimming the hairs of his greying mane.

Now he rests in spring shade,

dappled under the canopy,

tusks broken, eyes half-open.

His patrol of the wood will commence

for one last night

when the nightjar starts calling. 

NaPoWriMo 13: Dead End

Glass holds a moving image,
trapped in a continuum,
never free but always moving.

Tethered by a business suit
collared by a white starch shit,
looking out past the city-scape
to a dream caught in the wind.

Choked by the overhead noose,
desperate to be set loose
the shadow of the street upon them.
Scores of maybe friends
smile and dissipate into the night.

They stand by the traffic lights,
on windswept rail platforms,
pigeons perusing the detritus.
Maybe one day
the track forward will clear,
the lights may change.

One day.

NaPoWriMo #12: Dracoraptor

Dragon thief,
forbearer of the tyrant lizard king,
dredged from the cliffs
in a many-layered casket.

Feathered fiend
shore dweller,
red from head to tail-tip,
like the serpentine fire-breather
adorning the flag of its resting place.

Still growing
before the rocks entombed it,
yet still the oldest creature
from the era of the giants,
a tenacious herald
of the giants to come.

NaPoWriMo #11: Twmbarlwm Tribe

The spring light bathes the ancient Celtic fort,
a forgotten tump sat atop a peak.
Nondescript, no markings of which to speak,
yet within its walls are tales of a sort.
The Romans on the plain would try and thwart
the tribe from the woods playing hide and seek.
Against the legion their prospects were bleak,
but on top of the hill they held court,
decided to make the forest their shield.
Subterfuge became their weapon of choice,
they'd strike and disappear into the green
to the phalanx of Rome they'd never yield.
A sentry on the hill yells at full voice,
the army approaches but not unseen.

NaPoWriMo #10: Wanderer

Wild gales whip the Southern Ocean,
spraying salt and surf asunder
across the waves,
an invisible conductor
of an Antarctic opera.

A cross-shaped glider,
black wings against the clouds,
a pink bill and ice white feathers.
The mother albatross soars above
the thrashing sea,
barely moving a wingtip,
glides through the theatre of her struggle,
her mission's end in sight.

On a blizzard-besieged hillside
a mess of black down,
his bill as pink as his mother's,
huddles against the chill,
weathering the winter alone
till a familiar shape plummets
out of the freezing tempest.

The chick feasts on what scraps
his wandering mother could scrounge,
meagre offerings from the unyielding waves.

Not long now,
and the ocean will call her away once more.

NaPoWriMo #9: Eyes of the White Pointer

Seals dare to dither in the churning sea,
in the depths lurk silent silhouettes
about to embark on a killing spree.

For just offshore is a ferocious threat,
a black-eyed creature half shadow half ghost,
in the depths lurk silent silhouettes

of gleaming teeth. The great white of the coast,
the dead-stare shark, yet very much alive,
a black-eyed creature half shadow half ghost.

The white pointer looks up then starts to dive,
its massive bulk lurches out of the gloom,
the dead-stare shark, yet very much alive.

The white shark rockets up, herald of doom,
it snatches its prey, leaps above the waves,
its massive bulk lurches out of the gloom.

The surf churns, the ocean now a red haze,
seals dare to dither in the churning sea.
It snatches its prey, leaps above the waves,
about to embark on a killing spree.

NaPoWriMo #8: Reduced to Clear

A house, empty of all
but the echoes of memories.
Settees and chairs
with no more guests to host,
the kettle's hiss quenched,
an oven turned empty chamber,
the living room, once vibrant
with raucous laughter,
similarly silent.
The memories of generations,
what the retailers would call
reduced to clear,
sitting on display stands
till the "for sale" sign disappears
and the offer expires.

(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo site which asked for a poem turning jargon used in a professional setting into some kind of metaphor. Whether or not I achieved that here is up for debate.)

NaPoWriMo #7: Torrent

A trickle of water
on a bed of pebbles

nourished by nothing,
sheltered by the trees,

one drop
to quench the thirst,

the rains descend,
drench the forest

while mountains weep
and streams tumble,

all engulfed in a torrent,
tumbling down the cliffs

barreling its way
down the gorges

till every pebble
lies submerged,

the once deep gully
now fit to burst

with white surf lashing
the undergrowth

as the rapids explode,
lay claim to the soil,

the bushes, the brambles,
the mud, the mole hills,

their veins burst, spilling
lifeblood of the earth

across the soaking forest,
down to the river,

and even the fish
are swept up

and get lost
in the long grass.

NaPoWriMo #6: Last Minutes of the Day

Concrete's cold embrace

stretching out to meet the sky.

Grasping at the clouds 

with fingers of steel and glass.

The towers of commerce

caressed by the last rays of day,

an orange inferno bathing the rooftops

but shading the streets.

The vacant shop fronts

with hooded figures in sleeping bags

shivering and hunched over,

silhouetted by the glow within.

The trains clatter along aching tracks,

the seagulls swoop and dive 

in the space between the towers

until at last the inferno

is swallowed by the hills beyond

and the city lights take hold. 

NaPoWriMo #5: Heron Waiting

The shadow of death,
the grim reaper on rail-thin legs
looming over the lowly pond
like a feathered crane with cold eyes,

only no fish would willingly
let themselves be carried off
by the heron's yellow jib.
A grey ghost wading through the water
as if walking through walls.

The fish remain undisturbed,
gazing up from the green depths
seeing nothing but the reeds.
Then a blinding flash,
the grey shadow strikes,
takes off on silent wings.

NaPoWriMo #4: Sleet

The weather's not sure, should it rain or snow?
It's supposed to be April, time for spring,
but it seems the forecasters don't know
that spring sunshine can be a fickle thing.
 year's worth of frozen ice falls en masse.
For anyone out in the open air,
they should've just given this one a pass,
for the sleet will bring its wrath to bare
on all humans, mammals and birds alike.
Ice in my shoes, in my coat, up my nose,
what madness told me to try and hitchhike
through such freezing chaos I'll never know.
    Be sure to check the next weather forecast.
    You can never be sure if spring will last.

NaPoWriMo #3: Wild Goat Chase

Nothing about me seemed that special.
I'm just like any other Kashmiri kid.
Wandering the Great Orme with my herd,
grazing amongst the blooming orchids,
white fur and a beard as scruffy as any other.
A tuft grew out between my horns
and suddenly I was a marked goat.

Shenkin IV they named me.
Chosen to fill a vacancy I didn't know was going,
passed an interview I didn't attend.
Soldiers dressed in deciduous patterns,
white feathers atop their caps,
called out to me through the trees.
I wondered in those feathers
were their way of trying to blend in with the herd.

Still, I gave them the slip.
If they wanted to make me a fusilier
they'd have to earn my service.
I darted here and there, to a fro,
across the headland and through the thickets,
their whistles and entreaties useless.
My mother taught me not to heed mimicry.

How amusing to see allegedly trained troops
defeated by a four-footer for four weeks.
Being on the run was time-consuming,
but then a man with a dart gun caught me out.

Now I find myself a fusilier.
My sergeant's given me my own uniform
to make me part of this human herd.
Soon I'll meet something called the public
with my  harness and silver headpiece on.

Maybe I'll get to march by the Orme sometime
and let my old herd know I'm still here.

NaPoWriMo #2: The Coils of Dread

The coils of dread, diamond shape scales,
coils looping round a spade-shaped head,
eyes scanning all the jungle trails,
the coils of dread.

The snake glistens, skin freshly shed.
Against its strength few beasts prevail,
the python kills with no bloodshed.

Against it most other snakes pale.
It haunts a path few beasts dare tread,
unwinds, strikes like a whip or flail.
The coils of dread.

(Today's poem is a roundel, a form devised by the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne. This one was a bit of a challenge due to the fact that all the lines apart from the refrain need the same number of syllables, but I think I managed to get something out of it.)

NaPoWriMo #1: The Winter Tiger

In the windswept forest of ice and snow,
in the mountain blizzard and the winter's cold,
a spectre of stripes glides through the tundra.

Other creatures clear the way for her,
the terror of the northern reaches.
Her fur a tapestry of tawny and black,
a roaring fire amidst the white haze.

Her den cradled by the roots of an old pine,
the fallen cones scattered outside.
A hare crosses the threshold,
hears a rumbling growl within and flees.

The mother tigress shelters her newborns,
blind and mewling, against the arctic chill.
Soon the hunt will call to her again,
and she will haunt the ice once more.

(Yep, we're off on the NaPoWriMo adventure once more. Who knows where it'll go this year, but we'll soon find out with the next installment tomorrow. See you all there, and to my fellow poets, good luck!)

Heart of the Rage (Happy World Poetry Day!)

'Where rage consumes, nothing remains.'
The Sunset Vagabond

Some murderers and killers believe
that deep underneath Ragetown,
the stadium of rage and madness,
lies a vault with the strongest locks.

Drums accompany you up the steps
to a molten forged steel door,
sparks and embers
convulsing at the seams.

No one knows what lies behind them.
It may be a brimstone and lava torment,
fire rolling against the roof of chaos,
or maybe the white heat of anger

bursting into a vibrant bloom,
the frozen rage of old grievances,
so old they became crystallised,
fossilised and magnified,

formed over millennia
into the eye of the ichthyosaur,
a rim of untainted insanity
orbiting an infinite void

of eternal wrath.

(Happy World Poetry Day to all you poetry people out there! Hope the world is treating you all reasonably, and for those of you taking part in NaPoWriMo next month I wish you the best of luck. As a precursor to the madness ahead, what better than a poem literally about the heart of anger? Hope you enjoy and I'll see you all on the next poem!)

Paraceratherium

When nature has day dreams, it goes to town on new designs.

The Paraceratherium, browsing on trees growing in an ancient desert.
Charcoal-plated skin makes it seem a towering, armoured beast,
giraffe neck and legs thick as elms with cloven feet,
rhinoceros face devoid of any horn, top lip grasping at leaves.

A beast destined for the plains mimics its forest-dwelling friends,
over-engineered and feared, no smart hunter will try their luck.

Someway down the line the great-great-great-great grandchildren
of this titan will shed his neck and sprout horns,
content to graze on the plains instead of reaching their ancestor's heights.

Happy St. David's Day 2019!

Hello everyone, once again it's St. David's Day here in Wales, and having spent most of the day in Cardiff, it's positively buzzing.

Given our recent success with rugby in the Six Nations, the celebrations this year seem re-energised, with a large parade going back and forth through the city streets. The dragons, daffodils and bake-stones are in abundance. In Frynwys this morning the fields were dotted with patches of daffodils, and it's been one of the sunniest days we've ever had in February. All in all, it seems that this year's St. David's Day has been one of the most colourful on record, but what's happening in the world of Tiger Verse I hear you ask?

Well, things are proceeding at breakneck speed on this blog. Not only have I got another preview from the upcoming Mametz Wood poem to share, but there will also be a few new original poems coming next week. Alongside that, I can also see NaPoWriMo on the horizon again, so it will be all fingers to the keyboard for that.

In the meantime, hope you all have had a happy St. David's Day, and I'll sign off this post with a link to my guitar rendition of the Welsh National Anthem. See you all again soon.

Narrowboat Hootenanny

Roving Otter knew where
to get a decent narrowboat.
He found one at a lock
by the local pub.

The pigeons did their job,
dive bombing punters
sitting at the outside table.
We took no time in boarding.

I assumed command,
Father Vole was the lookout,
Smoking Gose was our engineer,
and Otter drove the boat.

The badgers, foxes, ducks,
geese, moorhens, rabbits,
even Spencer Swan booked
a reservation on the prow.

But our favourite friend
was Manic Owl.
He brought the instruments,
drums, guitars, and saxophones.

The man arrived in time
to see us waving from the stern.
Turns out cruising's all
a narrowboat's good for.

We set up our instruments.
Otter had his bass,
Vole was on the drums,
and Goose had a piano.

Manic Owl had a saxophone,
faded gold and battered,
but it produced sweeter notes
than anything on the water.

I had my old guitar,
an archtop with a red finish.
It was the lead in a jam
with a most ear-raising tune.

Our party went on into the night,
rhythm after rhythm buzzing
off the boat and across the water
to disturb slumbering cows.

Ducks danced with rabbits,
badgers danced with geese.
Spencer Swan demonstrated
the arm-breaker swing

for a group of astonished teal,
while Owl blistered solos
on his saxophone, and we
kept the beat of our hootenanny.

Frynwys Features #5: Wandering Policemen and Missing Moons

It's been a while indeed. Not that Frynwys has changed much since the last bulletin, but there have been a few small developments since the never-ending winter in June of last year. My home village is so small that the minutest of changes is headline news, and fortunately for this next installment of Frynwys Features there have been a few of them over the autumn and the Christmas period for me to jot down here.

The first item on the Frynwys grapevine this time is that the council have renovated all of the footpaths through the fields, a step up from the gravel path that was laid three installments ago. It seems that they've been getting help from some schools in the nearby towns. I've seen several groups of primary school children being led through the field at the bottom of the village to help with laying a new gravel path. They've also been helping with constructing timber benches on the other side of the fields and decorating a new flight of steps leading down to one of the more inaccessible streams in the area. Before this the paths through the nature reserve were all mud and were being slowly worn away. Hopefully now that half the village seems to be involved in their renovation, all the local dog walkers won't have to worry about traversing the marshes anymore.

In slightly more worrying news, there's been a stronger police presence in Frywnys over the last few weeks. There's been a few police helicopters flying overhead, and I've often seen them circling across the village before heading off to the south. Whether it's to do with missing people or criminals on the run, I'm not sure, but it seems they're stepping up their efforts if my latest encounter is anything to go by. As I was walking towards one of the village's smaller parks the other day, I spotted the unmistakable yellow high-visibility jacket of a policeman, complete with the hat and badges. He appeared to be looking for something, as he peered around the side of one of the climbing frames and then headed up to the kissing gate at the top of the field. The policeman was unaware of my presence until he was just about to step through the gate, at which point he turned, looked at me, and then exited the park. Whatever interest the police have in Frynwys, I doubt they'll find what they're looking for on a climbing frame.

Meanwhile, in the gardening section of this bulletin, it appears that the local daffodils are once again rearing their yellow heads. There's a cluster of them up by the old nursery, huddled on a bank at the side of the road, and despite the wintry weather Frynwys is currently experiencing, a few green shoots have already appeared. This is highly unusual as the first daffodils generally don't start appearing here until around the end of February, but it seems a few of them didn't get the memo about spring and have popped out early. I suspect it might have something to do with the aftermath of the Beast from the East from last year, where snow enveloped the village just as it seemed spring was about to arrive. Perhaps the daffodils reset their photosynthesis clocks for this year to avoid another scheduling issue, but this is of course speculation from somebody who has no botanical credentials. If any botanists are reading this post, please comment below and tell me what an idiot I am for suggesting plants can talk to each other.

In more recent phenomena, you may or may not have been lucky enough to witness the super blood wolf moon which appeared in the sky early in the morning on the 21st of January. I myself was hoping to witness the enormous red moon, but it turned out to be a classic case of the British weather conspiring to thwart me once again. Last year I had tried to see a similar moon, but just as the moon was rising a thick bank of clouds smothered the sky and I saw nothing. What made it even more frustrating was that the the moon behind the clouds caused them to glow red. I had hoped to overcome the weather itself this time and catch a glimpse of this solar marvel, but unfortunately I had to resort to looking at photographs on the news that people with clearer skies had taken. Apparently the next super blood wolf moon won't be around for at least another three to five years, so I'll be waiting for a while before I try and outwit the clouds again.

That brings us to the end of another installment of Frywnys Features, but don't worry; if anything changes even in the slightest around my home village I'll be sure to make a note of it. In the meantime, stay tuned for more poetry and possibly a few tigers as well.