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The Snowflake by Nicholas Gott
by Pete Crowther
Click Here for Mr G's: CRICKET AND CAKES
By Nicholas Gott
Pitter Patter on my roof
Is it time
There can only be proof
I can hear the chime
Of the beat fall slow
I glance out
And there falling is snow
I begin to shout
Putting on my wellies
Slipping on my hat
My legs feel like jelly
There's no doubt about that
I roll up the snow
I glance up to the air and pose
I definitely know
That there is a snowflake falling on my nose
A box of matches in a dish,
The radio talks of Lillian Gish,
A fly squashed flat upon the wall,
Meticulously hooked, a hat and coat
Within the cool environs of the hall.
Home from work, he rests his feet
And hears the radio voices bleat,
Watches the matchbox on the plate,
His eyes are lazy in the glance,
Instinctively his lungs inflate.
He turns the radio off to steal
A thought about his evening meal,
A dream of dinner on a tray,
Served by a nymph, does not prove true;
He leaves to buy a take-away.
I think it was West Hartlepool
Or possibly Sunderland .
It was somewhere along the North-east coast,
I'm given to understand
It was where they hung the monkey,
The one that came to be
Cast up on the sandy shoreline there
After a storm at sea.
It thought itself most fortunate
To see the land again
For all the sailors on its ship
Had drowned in the watery main.
It was a sailor's happy pet
And used to his gentle ways
So when it saw some men ashore
It gave its Maker praise.
And ran to them with happy cries,
Glad of their company
But all the men of Hartlepool
Thought it quite uncanny.
None of them had ever seen
Such a thing as a monkey,
For all they knew it could have been
A dressed-up courtroom flunkey.
They scratched their heads in puzzlememt,
Some said it was a Frenchman,
But others disagreed and thought
It was the Devil's henchman.
The arguments went on and on
And no-one could agree
Until an ancient fisherman said:
‘Now everyone listen to me,
It's plain this creature is a Frenchie
By Boney sent to spy
Upon the men of Hartlepool ,
So, come let's swing him high! .
The monkey then was marched to gaol,
It thought it was a game
And danced and skipped between its gaolers
As to the town they came.
And when they put around its neck
The rope that hung from the tree
It chattered with excitement
Recalling frolics on the sea.
When it was roughly pushed, to jerk
And dangle from the rope,
To change its view of all mankind,
There was not time, we hope.
The Villanelle's a tricky poem to pen
Such rigid rules for rhymes you'll seldom see,
The same old lines keep coming round again.
Lines one and three must always finish when
Their final rhymes each with the other do agree,
The Villanelle's a tricky poem to pen.
Line three you'll see once more before line ten
(It's really nine but you will pardon me) .
The same old lines keep coming round again.
It's back again at line fifteen, and then
At line nineteen'you've guessed, it is line three!
The Villanelle's a tricky poem to pen.
Line one you'll know, if you have acumen,
Is very much like three: their rules don't disagree,
The same old lines keep coming round again.
And now, thank God, it's nearly line nineteen
When from this poem's fiendish rules I'm free.
The Villanelle's a tricky poem to pen,
The same old lines keep coming round again