Looking for Daphne.




Followed the little tele,
on the windscreen,
to a Tesco's car park in Padstow,
tell me stranger what do you know?
Lisa shopping to fill our belly.

Found Ms. Du Maurier,
in the Old Custom House,
may the giro in a barn,
come to no harm.

Potted whale,
thrupence a gale,
the seagulls full of chips,
big boats and ships.

The sea dogs have gone the way of the mines,
lottsa rock salmon dines,
one k a kilo,
what the sun does know,
grizzled brown and a little blow,
suddenly Rhyl looks interesting.

As the night sky at Arles took us,
little fairy travellers,
pirates by the score,
what do you know of Cornwall,
who opened the shed door?

A misty morning,
hope for heroes,
the song of Nero,
thinking of you with camels,
same old, same old,
Tommy this and Tommy that,
don't worry,
we'll feed your cat.

So to the garden of Eden,
Bucky Fuller come of age,
one on every council estate,
don't hesitate.

The robin charms a bit of Swiss roll,
all true greens are on the dole,
take these broken wings and learn to fly,
the gentleness of England,
birds and laughter,
what comes after,
when the sea rises
and green inherits the prizes.

A sort of organic Martian Crete,
at a price you can afford,
not stoned or bored,
I looked for the clapped out emulsion coloured painted bus,
windows 75,
learning to jive in a field,
what now of the psilocybin yield?

Hot knives 25p a hit,
lottsa old army kit,
when I woke from my dreams,
we were all old, grey and portly,
gentle and courtly.

Trying to save the planet,
saying goodbye to the Isle of Thanet,
we headed to the free beach,
to find a magic rock,
how long does it take,
to grow a rainbow hollyhock?

A languid child with a tin whistle,
little bear waving bye bye,
a day of charm and Cornwall,
looking for Rebecca,
I found John,
stumbling blind round the corn,
we have found the table,
with a good pint of ale,
a tall ship with a tale.

We have made friends again with the Gael,
the untying of knots,
a new playground skipping rope,
full of poetry and hope.

It is still good to be free,
the swallows have made it back from Africa,
a raven looked at me,
as if it was thee,
cheeky, full of fun and charming,
the sea is calming,
as balmy as a scribe on holiday.

The Russian empire collapsed,
as a soufflé,
when the oven door was opened,
all their gold ended up in piles
and the poor lost their pension,
thought I'd mention,
China has turned into Birmingham
and we are being kept quiet,
with a DVD player and cheap quality socks.

The fox gloves are as tall as,
they should be
and butterflies have gone,
the way of the fish in the sea,
the Erth is a living thing,
that is tired of us
and the waters are rising,
but then so is the morning bread
and we're not yet dead.

We're fighting again in Afghanistan,
to stop the law of poppy,
chopping our head of in the public square,
for being a little gay,
always the bravest soldier,
on this sunny day in May.

The railway station you saved,
is now a national treasure,
but we can't afford the fare
and St Pancreas is not talking to St Erth.

Shame of surf town drunks Newquay,
a young boy climbs the apple tree
and I married Joan Hunter Dunn,
anyone for tennis? said Dennis,
I will read your poetry again,
it was always such fun,
as fetching messages for your mother,
sleep peacefully brother,
all is still well.

So to the grave,
as easy to find as a rave,
behind a hedgerow,
what do you know about?
I read some of psalm 96 in the church,
flowered for the May,
such a wedding day, I would have been your Sub-Lieutenant
looking after Ted.

All as gentle as a light summers breeze,
with travellers and a tease,
be at your ease,
the river is gathering itself in,
time for a cola and gin,
a blessing of kith and kin,
Cornish strawberry ice cream,
the fields as Saxon as England,
all the flags a flying,
soaring gulls a crying,
a bucket and spade day.

Silver surfing,
as sleek as a cuttlefish on ice,
throw the dice,
the 10p fountain goes on forever and ever,
never mind the weather,
it's lucky heather.

The lads caught some mackerel,
the polecat of the seas,
shooting the breeze,
with ale and at our ease.

I flew the swift in the sunny wet bay,
confused a seagull for a bit,
as sucking on the tit,
a week of from Rome,
playing in the vineyards,
of abiding chrome,
tinkers and dinners,
almost real ale.

Lottsa cheap tat,
everyone looking for an holiday,
don't feed the seagulls
and that's that.

In 1967 halfway to heaven,
they moved my doss bag to St Erth,
tried to charge me for lost property
oh what it was to be young and free,
everyone a star in everyone else's movie.

Dancing with the children
and breathing fresh air,
oh to be at St Ives,
without a care.

Oh teach me Mr. Leach,
how to pray and preach,
the potter's wheel on the tele,
tea's ready said mother,
we sat down with a Japanese urn,
oh did we tease
and filled the shaped earth with the seas.

The girl as thin as Aphrodite,
with bright blue hair,
was gentle and did take care,
I wittered on about draw
and the time it took Michelangelo,
to draw a perfect circle.

Who tolls the bell,
I said the bull,
because I can pull,
an old silver and gold medal,
from the church fete,

love is in the hands of the potter.

One in every school,
should be the rule,
a table for the people,
as tart as we are able.

The Waidbridge county market,
is as sharp as home made lemon curd,
free sparrow bird,
as well set as a racing yacht,
fine wool for the babies cot,
a strong bridge over the river,
thanking the giver,
home from the sea,
merry and thee,
an holiday in the country called Cornwall,
for the little boats.

~