Scary Stuff
I remained crouched behind the bushes in the hope that they would leave soon,
A frisky breeze tugging at my hair, clouds smudging the face of the moon.
I could hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocks below the cliff face,
And the distant lights of a fog-bound coastal village could dimly trace.
“Still no signs of life,” I muttered to myself, somewhat impatiently,
And squinting at my wristwatch, I wondered how much longer they would be.
I tugged at the collar of my coat, drawing it up around my neck,
And on hearing what sounded like voices, slowly raised my head to check.
“Finally,” I thought to myself, body taut like a stretched rubber band,
For the icy night air had chilled me, and great danger lay near at hand.
I snatched at my backpack, torch in the other hand, preparing to go,
While keeping my eyes on the shadowy figures emerging below.
Shortly they made their way down a rock strewn path leaving the cave behind,
And leaving me to nervously wonder what a search of its bowels might find.
Once they reached the shoreline below, and a waiting boat (discreetly moored),
I hurriedly headed for the cave, where no doubt contraband was stored.
The entrance loomed forebodingly, and fearful thoughts flittered ’cross my mind,
Hence the further inside I ventured, the more often I glanced behind.
It seemed to meander for ages, and my fears became more intense,
And darkness that my torchlight pierced, became increasingly pea soup dense.
I was about to turn back when the light of my torch fell on a crate,
And then another, and another, begging me to investigate.
Worried about my dimming light, I quickly explored the smugglers’ haul,
’Till the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, for I’d heard someone call.
I darted behind a crate, stabbed at my torch, my heart pounding wildly,
Visions of a messy end heralding a highly strung symphony.
The voice was getting louder, closer — in fact, someone was calling me,
“Get up you lazy thing, you’ve been dreaming, it’s nearly quarter to three!”
By Lance Landall
Woosh!
Oh, you’re so mischievous, Maestro Wind, you really are, you create quite a stir,
And there are times when you take things too far, get carried away, unkindly err.
It’s one thing to tug at the washing and tangle it up, or to loosen the pegs,
But quite another to yank clothes right off, and to strengthen when, “No!” somebody begs.
You get terribly boisterous at times, we’d rather you settle down, be a breeze,
We’d rather see you waltzing pretty little flowers or slender branches in trees.
Yes, we don’t mind you rustling the leaves, rippling the grass, even swaying power lines,
But please, do we have to put up with all that moaning, and those irritating whines?
Quite frankly, you’re a tease, can’t seem to help yourself — I guess it comes naturally,
But hey, not when we’re having a picnic — it’s bad enough fending off flies, a bee.
And say, couldn’t you give us warning, not suddenly appear, or turn blustery?
And there’s no need to toss things about — that’s dangerous, acting unreasonably.
Yes, Maestro Wind, it’s about time you acted more moderately, less impishly,
Though it wouldn’t be so bad if it were just occasionally, infrequently.
But dear oh dear, you’re often bothering us, and as for those gales, they’re most unfair,
And so too, I must add, those annoying cuffs when I’ve combed and lacquered my hair.
By Lance Landall
Down Below
I say, little worm, what’s all these holes in my lawn? Are they yours?
Are you responsible? If so, you must have amazing jaws.
And given the amount, you’ve clearly been very, very busy,
Or could it be that you happen to have a large family?
You’re such a wriggly, squiggly thing — slimy too, actually,
And so devoid of features, which doesn’t help with poetry.
I hope you have a helmet, because I have to mow the grass,
And over the top of those holes will be making a low pass.
I’d watch out for those starlings too, lest they grab you with their beak,
For they often visit me, and wriggly little fat worms seek.
I guess they need their dinner, but I wouldn’t rush to their aid,
So keep your helmet on, and your head down, and act unafraid.
Pardon? Worms are good for one’s lawn? Then I’d hate to see you go,
Though it’s rare for me to see you, given you’re mostly down below.
It’s simply all those holes I’m seeing, and squiggly little mounds,
Yes, that underground activity that intrigues and confounds.
By Lance Landall
