A Tale of Midsummer

Midsummer’s Eve,
In the strangest of years.
When nightmarish creatures
Became our worst fears.

Threatened by demons,
Who flew through the air,
Locked in our towers
And filled with despair

We trusted our kingdom
To do the right thing
But nervously worried
Of what that might bring.

We missed all the magic
Of friends in hard times,
When sharing a hug became
One of life’s crimes.

We clapped for the Carers,
Our own fairy folk,
Whilst damming the asses,
Who thought it a joke.

Gargoyles and pixies were
Flouting the rules,
As darkness descended
On all of our schools.

What a tale we will tell,
On next Midsummer’s Eve,
Of this time in our lives
We can hardly believe.

Garden Party Invitation

We’re having a party!
Here are the plans,
Please bring a towel
For washing your hands.

We will be outside,
But you can use the loo,
Just don’t touch the woodwork,
Or door handles too.

No hugging or kissing,
You’re not in my bubble,
But if you get desperate,
There’s cushions to cuddle.

We’ll sit well apart,
I don’t mean to be rude,
But it’s probably safer
To bring your own food.

Typical, isn’t it?
Sunshine for weeks,
But now we can meet up,
It’s raining in sheets.

Still, this is progress,
And I’m longing to see,
My nearest and dearest
Up close in 3D.

The Soller Train

On the Island of Mallorca,
There’s this perfect little train
That takes you out of Palma,
And then brings you back again.

Through the Tramuntana mountains
To the famous Soller bay,
It’s a marvellous adventure
For an hour or so each way.

Those polished shiny carriages
Attracting admiration,
From the tourists as they take a seat
For their perambulation.

And then we’re off! Through Palma’s streets
Trundling past the cars
Waving at the locals
Sat outside the Tapas bars.

At first it’s rather urban,
Passing factories and yards,
There’s little indication of the
Wonders on the cards.

But as we pass the picnic grounds,
The landscape starts to change,
Almond trees and a fresher breeze,
Blows down the mountain range.

In the village of Bunyola,
The train slows to a stop,
For here, a hundred years ago
They’d load their market crop.

Then we’re into darkness,
As a tunnel greets the train,
Black as night, then approaching light,
Then sunshine once again.

We stop again, just for the view,
High above the bay,
The driver has a cigarette,
And then we’re on our way.

Now the train is getting faster,
Rolling down the mountain side
We switchback in a tunnel,
Like a rollercoaster ride.

Past the backs of houses,
With their orange groves and vines,
And down into the station,
Past the locomotion lines.

So now the journey’s over,
But our memories remain,
Of clear blue skies and mountain highs
Onboard this little train.

And one day soon, I promise you,
We’ll board an aeroplane,
Then come back to Mallorca
and we’ll do this all again.

Watch a video of this poem here.

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