The Tooth Fairy by Elizabeth Henry

illustration:  Delphine Jones

She’s a dainty wisp of wonder

And she makes our children smile.

A flimsy, floaty Tinker Bell

Who comes once in a while.

 

She scatters twinkling sunshine

On the coverlets of the bed.

And places glistering silver coins

Beneath our infant’s head.

 

She’s a slice of myth and legend

And her wings are laced with gold.

Her dress is made of filigree;

She’s impish and she’s bold.

 

She hovers in the bedroom

When our babes are fast asleep,

And in exchange for jewels and gems,

A tiny tooth she’ll keep.

The Tree Swing by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delphine Woods

I made a gaudy tree swing in a bosky garden glade

From rope and wood and scraps of toile, with scissors and a blade.

I dangled my concoction from an old and knobbly tree,

Between a pink clematis and a sweet mint Kolibri.

 

I sat in it and twizzled it and swayed it to and fro’.

I spun it rather speedily and then I made it slow.

I read in it, then lay in it and had a little doze

Amidst the cheery sparrows and a rambling yellow rose.

 

I used it as a sanctuary to hide from rowdy crowds,

Unwinding ‘neath the dappled shade, whilst gazing at the clouds.

I scrawled a composition as I jiggled in the breeze:

A song about a ladybug, a beetle and some bees.

 

I had a celebration on a fine midsummer’s night,

With streamers, flags and bunting and a bonfire burning bright.

I lounged inside my saggy swing and watched the wine cascade,

Content to be secluded from the raucous cavalcade.

 

But then I left it hanging in the brume and in the snow,

And after countless bouts of rain the mould began to grow.

The clothe went black and dotty and expelled a putrid smell.

No longer was my gaudy swing a pleasant place to dwell.

The Horseshoe Pool by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delphine Jones

 I sometimes stroll beside the pool

Where once, when young and trim,

I let the water beckon me

To paddle, float and swim.

 

I ponder hot and limpid days,

‘Neath crests of beryl blue,

Cavorting on the soggy bank

With little else to do …

 

My dress abandoned on the grass,

Beside a wooden shack;

A rowing boat that lightly jounced

Upon a stolid lap;

 

The squelch of mud betwixt my toes;

A chronic buzz of pests;

A gallant dive, with breath held tight

And legs against my chest;

 

The swoosh of leaves that rocked and swayed

And quivered in the sky,

Enchanting and bewitching me,

Whilst on my back I’d lie;

 

The calling of the nightingale,

The cuckoo and the thrush;

The peace and sheer placidity,

Away from stress and rush.

 

Then in a burst, abrupt and brisk,

My wistful daydream ends,

For standing, calling out to me,

Are three of my best friends.

The Happy Campers by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delhine Jones

 A furtive clearing by the rocks

Will be your wildest dream.

Together with a campfire

And an easy going stream.

 

A site of contemplation,

Where serenity is found.

A little shelter by the sea,

Where infants splash around.

 

You’ll hear the pulse of tapping

As you start to plot and pitch,

Creating an Arcadia

To charm and to bewitch.

 

You’ll dangle pastel garlands

And a lantern from the trees.

And then you’ll hang a hammock

Midst the butterflies and bees.

 

You’ll dread the clout of footballs,

As the children frisk and play,

Disrupting your tranquillity

With din and disarray.

 

And later you will giggle,

As the gin begins to flow.

(You’ll suffer in the morning

When the cockerel starts to crow.)

 

You’ll loathe the frenzied bustle

Of the early bathroom rush.

You’ll wish you’d risen early

To avoid the crazy rush.

 

But when the week is over

And equipment’s stored away,

You’ll feel refreshed and livened by

Your camping holiday.

Bed by Elizabeth Henry

 I love to touch my laundered sheet,

So warm and snug about my feet.

I love to sniff my pillow case –

A sweet Gardenia round my face.

And even though my blanket’s worn.

It stills and calms me till the morn.

 

I love to stroke my vintage quilt;

It’s patched and hued, and made of silk.

I love my dolly, worse for wear,

That sits beside my teddy bear.

I love my novel, though it’s frayed,

My hanky trimmed with lace brocade.

 

I love my creaky music box,

My dressing gown, my fluffy socks.

I love the portrait on my wall

Of granny in her crocheted shawl.

I love my crackly gramophone,

My blue enamel brush and comb.

 

I love my tarnished looking-glass –

A bleary relic from my past.

I love the runner on the floor,

The crooked hook upon the door.

I love to sip my morning tea,

Whilst listening to a purling sea.

 

But most of all, I love my bed –

A peaceful place to rest my head.

Herbs and Spices by Elizabeth Henry

Chilli, rosemary, dill and mint.

Ginger spice to fire your drink.

Salt and pepper, sage and mace.

Aloe Vera for your face.

 

Basil, lemon, spearmint, thyme,

Woody sorrel, fragrant lime.

Subtle saffron, pale and gold.

Oregano, fresh and bold.

 

For your curry, fennel seed.

Soothe your ache with malva weed.

Marjoram, to help your feet.

Chamomile, for restful sleep.

 

Eucalyptus lets you breathe,

Catnip comfort when you teethe

Jasmine’s there to hoist your mood.

Dulse adds goodness to your food.

 

Should you wish to shed some weight,

Black-eyed pea tastes really great.

Should you want to quell the croup,

Bearberry tea and garlic soup.

 

And when your joints begin to sing,

Devil’s claw is just the thing.

Smear it on both morn and night,

And in a week you’ll feel all right.

 

Herbs and spices, wholesome, good.

Grown in gardens, and in woods.

Utilise them while you can,

To keep your body spick and span.

The Highland Fisherman by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delphine Jones

Amidst the hefty upland hills

Live honest folk with ancient skills:

The cooper and the lowly boots,

The man who heads the pheasant shoots.

 

The fisher in his humble shack

Is known to all as ‘Trawler Jack’.

He rises early every day,

To keep his fiery bride at bay.

 

At dusky dawn, he finds a spot

To sail his raft into the lock,

But as the hours slowly pass,

He sees no salmon, pike or bass.

 

Alas, the seal, so apt and deft;

He’s poached the fish and swiftly left.

The poor fisher’s all alone,

With not a jot to ferry home.

 

As mist descents, Jack leaves his boat;

It sways and bounces, bobs afloat.

No catch has he within his grasp.

He dreads the questions he’ll be asked.

 

He travels homeward, cold and wet,

And at the door he’s swiftly met.

He sighs and pats his faithful dog.

His wife stands looming, like the fog.

 

“Hoo mony hae ye caught?” she shouts,

But Jack just shrugs and stars to pout.

“Then it’s mince and tatties fur yer tea,

Nae cullen skink fur me and ye!”

Home by Elizabeth Henry

I have a cottage thin and tall,

With peeling paint upon the wall.

A plenitude of hoary rooms,

Beside a garden steeped in blooms.

 

And aged sink, its surface chipped;

A line of bunting, faded, ripped;

A capering fire of fulgent gold;

A smudge of damp; a dab of mould.

 

A rough-hewn dresser, decked in plates;

An antique settle; wooden crates;

A table, with a hole or two;

A wonky seat upon the loo.

 

A hefty tub, to soothe my back;

A wireless that’s a Union Jack;

A squashy mattress, satin quilt;

A chiselled headboard that’s well built.

 

A Pantry door of pastel pink

Hides jars and bottles, food and drink.

A mixing bowl with painted chicks;

A bucket full of kindling sticks.

 

A statue with a torn straw hat;

An old church pew, a dozing cat;

A willow wigwam, peas and beans;

A deckchair, splitting at the seams.

 

A gut of buxus, clipped and shaped;

Some linen curtains loosely draped;

A floorboard, which will reel and rock,

Beneath a German cuckoo clock.

 

Some incense and an oil lamp too;

Some Pukka tea, to meld a brew;

A brimming bookshelf, stacked with tat;

A hardback classic, bent and cracked.

 

My home is rustic, verdant, lush.

It’s cushy, quirky, spared from rush.

It’s timeless and it’s fancy-free –

The prefect place for me to be!

The Faerie Glen by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delphine Jones

I crossed a bridge where toadstools grow,

Atop a river’s gentle flow.

I climbed down stairs that arced and wound,

Until I reached the hallowed ground.

 

The roots beneath me tangled tight,

To keep the pixies out of sight,

To hide the faeries, sprites and elves

And keep them safe from wicked spells.

 

I lounged beside a deep ravine,

Encased by banks of velvet green.

And there I heard the waters splash:

A deafening, lunging, slamming crash.

 

The mossy crags felt cold and damp,

And lichen grew on every bank.

A skein of cobwebs clutched the trees,

Ensconced and sheltered from the breeze.

 

I saw an otter dive and dip,

His snakelike body roll and flip.

I paused in silence, held my stance

To watch him frolic, lark and dance.

 

I wound my way through ancient wood,

Where golden beeches long have stood

Until I found a secret nook –

A place to settle with my book.

Nettle Soup by Elizabeth Henry

 First you don your wellies,

And then you find a glove.

You meander to the greenhouse,

With your trusty garden trug.

 

You trample through the brambles,

Being careful not to fall.

You find a patch of nettles,

Then you hold on tight and pull.

 

You take them to the kitchen,

And you blanch them in a pot.

You fry some onion in a pan

And add some tasty stock.

 

You chop some juicy carrots,

And some celery and bay,

Then add a leek and lemon juice

And fuse with herb bouquet.

 

Now tip in welted nettles

And take a little sip.

Lift the pot towards the sink-

Be mindful not to trip.

 

Liquidize your edible,

And add a swirl of cream.

Then sprinkle pepper, salt and mint …

Your soup is vibrant green!

Daymer Bay by Elizabeth Henry

Daymer Bay, Cornwall, photo credit Matt Jessop, The Independent

 The sun sinks down on Daymer Bay

As pleasure seekers take their leave.

The tide advances t’ward to cove

Upon a balmy summer’s eve.

 

The waves revolve across the beach –

They spin the shingle and the shale.

They plunder sculptures one by one

Of noble castles, boats and sails.

 

Discarded ‘gainst the ragged fence

There is a bucket and a rake,

Amidst a host of spuddling toys

That moms and dads forgot to take.

 

Beside the dunes in Enodoc:

Basilica of peace and rest,

Where lies a poet laureate,

In sacred ground, revered and blessed.

 

A little stroll finds Stepper Point,

A knoll to conquer, low but steep,

Deserted now this eventide,

To let the dragon softly sleep.

 

And tucked behind a jagged rock,

A lonesome surfer sits and waits,

For early evening our at sea

Is when and where his stunts take place.

The Den by Elizabeth Henry

I thought they might be toying

When they said they’d built a den

Cobbled up from twigs and ferns,

Beside the pheasant pen.

 

An incy wincy snuggery

With Lilliputian door

And shards of scratchy farmyard hay

Upon the shoddy floor.

 

A sanctum and a hideout,

An eyrie and a lair.

I can’t believe they wanted me

To spend all night in there!

 

A cavern and a burrow,

A warren and a hole,

A place of pesky callers

Like the excavating mole.

 

Inside a ring of boulders,

They’ll light a blazing fire

To char their foraged edible

Upon a raging pyre.

 

Adorned in cosy thermals,

They’ll opt to spend the night,

Immured by eerie squeals and squawks,

As woodland owls takes flight.

 

And when they wake from sleeping,

They’ll crave a comfy bed.

I’ll find them stiff and grumpy,

With their legs like heavy lead.

 

But still, they’ll have enjoyed it;

It’s where they like to be –

That furtive little hidey-hole

That no one else can see.

The Picnic by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delphine Jones

Canapés and fairy cakes, caviar and ham,

Weeny finger sandwiches, replete with raspberry jam.

Pretty Gingham tablecloths are spread upon the grass.

Bollinger and Moët are consumed from crystal glass.

 

Baskets filled with plates and flasks, with napkins, spoons and forks;

Artful sweethearts hunt out nooks to frolic and disport.

Fancy pots and porringers, a saucer, cup and jug

Sit beside a strawberry sponge, upon the picnic rug.

 

Lovely, lacy parasols, positioned by the pool,

Are shielding fair and freckled skin and keeping bodies cool.

There’s dreamy, drowsy dancing as the band begins to play;

Its tone’s as smooth as polished glass and makes you want to sway.

 

A joint of beef, a roasted duck, some salad and some bread,

A lobster, quail and pheasant pie all make a sumptuous spread.

A game of croquet, cricket, chess or tennis on the court,

Whilst men in boaters smoke cigars and guzzle vintage port.

 

There’s merriment and frippery and flagrant joie de vivre

As tantalising ladies aim to charm and to intrigue.

A patient valet stands and waits to hear his brusque command

As flurried tweenies scurry fast, forever in demand.

 

Dresses hitched above the knee, whilst splashing in the stream

Children seek to hook a fish and gobble gooey cream.

Punch and Judy and their stick put on a splendid show.

Debutantes are shy and meek, their faces gleam and flow.

 

At eventide, a chilly breeze brings goosebumps to the skin.

Blankets, baskets, rugs and chairs are swiftly carried in.

Lovebirds part with weighted hearts, deflated, lorn and lost –

Their passion, thrill and prurience allayed and fleetly quashed.

The Poet by Elizabeth Henry

I roamed beside the stream, so cool and calm,

A notebook and a pen beneath my arm.

I heard the din of voices, crass and loud,

And hid behind a hedgerow from the crowd.

 

I ventured very slowly to a bridge,

Tormented by the fly and by the midge.

I dawdled in the water for a while,

Then drifted through the grass towards a stile.

 

The flowers all around me danced and swayed,

As little baby rabbits frisked and played.

I heard the plop of liquid as a trout

Began to struggle free and flap about.

 

I felt the brush of blossom as it fell

Amongst a clump of daisies in the dell.

I sniffed a pungent odour in the field

And pondered what the farmer had concealed.

 

I passed a pair of sweethearts in a tryst

And tactfully ignored them as they kissed.

I chuckled at the antics of a hound

That chased in their direction with a bound.

 

Its keeper swiftly followed in a flap

And snatched the puppy from the lover’s lap.

I noticed how her face began to flush,

As shame and agitation made her blush.

 

And then, at last, I reached my favourite spot,

A sheltered little niche to scratch and jot.

And with my nibbled biro, worn and old,

I wrote a fine sestina, clear and bold. 

The Hat Stand by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delphine Jones

A rickety old hat rack,

Stands proudly in the hall,

Bedecked in quirky millinery

That’s loved by one and all.

 

A potpourri of colour,

A diversity of cloth

That’s sometimes gnawed and nibbled by

The greedy household moth.

 

There’s Uncle Bertie’s bowler

And Katrina’s riding hat,

A tattered Tom o’Shanter

Often donned by Grandpa Mac.

 

A beautiful Balmoral,

A magnificent beret,

A black and white straw boater,

For a picnic in the hay.

 

A superhero helmet.

For exploring on a bike,

A grubby khaki bucket hat

For taking on a bike.

 

A fancy fascinator,

For the day the brood are we,

An Ebenezer sleeping cap

To keep you snug in bed.

 

But one thing is for certain,

I’m convinced you’ll all agree,

If they didn’t have a hat rack,

Untidy they would be.