ONE WET DAY

It was early on one Saturday morn,

When I quickly made my way

Across to the allotment to bring

Some vegetables for dinner next day.

The carrots they were wet and dirty

Like that they were no good,

So I took them to the water point

To wash off all the mud.

I leaned across to turn the tap

To wash the carrots off,

But I caught my foot against the edge

And fell into the trough.

I floundered about like a drowning rat,

Soaked through to the skin.

I quickly took a look around and wondered

If any was about and seen me falling in.

I squelched my way back up to the shed.

This wet I'd never been,

But out of every tragedy comes some good,

At least the carrots were clean.

My wellies full of water,

Back home I made my way,

Hoping I didn't meet anyone

Cos I wouldn't have known what to say.

My wife was waiting at the gate

To take the veg I'd brought her.

"Good heavens," she said. "What's happened to you?"

I feebly replied: "I've fallen in the water."

Cyril Humphrey, Cockfield, Co Durham

CHILLIN ISLAND

I'm off work now for 12 days

For some well-earned R and R.

No need for a carbon footprint

Cos I'm not going far.

There is no need to fly,

For it's not over the sea.

Off to Chillin Island,

That's where I'm going to be.

Let me tell you about Chillin Island.

It's a place I regularly go.

It's not spoiled by tourism,

Cos about it they do not know.

Chillin Island is not over-crowded

And not heavily populated,

And unlike most resorts,

It's not over-rated.

The surf creeps up to the beach

In a melodic sort of way.

There are no dark clouds in the sky

And the sun it shines all day.

If you ever go to Chillin Island

No pollution you will find,

Only tranquillity and peace,

For Chilllin Island is all in the mind.

Robert Routledge, Ludworth

MOVING ON

An episode of my life has now passed by

And I'm ready to move on again.

I'm considering I'm a bit of a nomad

As my fate to change places is quite plain.

My travels have found me in many places

From towns to villages, moors and coast.

Twenty six different dwellings have been my lot in life

With a boarding school complete with its ghost.

Three different bungalows have I known

Two-up, two-downs, some good, some bad.

Big houses, small houses, cottages and mansions,

The names of them relate to a pad.

For 70-odd years I've been on the move.

My roots as such don't exist.

Gardens I've created and left behind,

Lost forever in time's mist.

How many more moves must I endure?

Surely the impending one must be the last.

My bones are weary of all this unsettling,

I just want it to now lie in the past.

I don't want to see another moving van.

I just want to stay in one place.

Please let me enjoy what is left

And be part of the human race.

Jean Naseby, Darlington

BARRY WHITE

I lost a good friend the other day.

He has gone. He has passed away.

His name was Barry White.

He gave his illness, cancer, a hell of a fight.

Barry was a member of the RAOB.

He was a good friend to many, especially me.

Barry was a miner at Thirslington and Easington pit.

He was full of good humour and intelligent wit.

Barry fought hard and long to beat the illness he had.

He never complained, he never said he was bad.

Barry worked tirelessly for cancer research, I found.

He would say, put your hand in your pocket, give my a pound.

I only hope Brother Barry is in heaven, a place of bliss.

Sadly, too many friends you have left.

You will be a sad miss.

Jimmy Taylor, Coxhoe, Co Durham

OBSERVATIONS

As one door shuts, another opens,

and so it's been for me,

As no longer I can hear,

The clearer I can see.

I see the beauty of the flowers,

The shape of every tree,

The changing blue of the sky,

They way the clouds go skidding by.

The birds that fly with joy on high,

The planes that go whizzing by,

Or hang suspended in the sky.

These things are there for me.

A Fisher, Spennymoor, Co Durham

SCHOOL IN WARTIME

The air raid siren

Gives the alarm,

With gas masks on, we head for shelter

And hide from harm.

We've just been playing

Outside on the grass,

But now we huddle underground,

Waiting for the raid to pass.

In the darkness,

It's safe without light.

We hear a plane passing overhead,

Its angry engine giving fright.

Boiled ham and bread and jam.

Let's hope we'll be home for tea,

And wonder how many years from now

We'll remember times like these.

Eileen Idrissi, Peterlee