Archive | poetry

Dan the Watchman
Doesn’t go to bed
He sits in a little wooden hut
Instead;
At a little coke-fire,
Half red, half blue,
Listening to the owls
Go “Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!”
And the Town clock
Strike half-past two.

When the moon sits on top
Of the grey church spire,
He piles more coke
On his red-and-blue fire;
When the old mill pond
Begins to freeze,
He eats his supper of bread-and-cheese.

I’d like to go out
In the middle of the night,
When the little coke-fire
Is shining bright,
When the flames burn blue,
And the flames burn red,
And everyone else in the world is in bed.

Then I’d sit in the little wooden hut with Dan,
And drink strong tea from his black billycan

Timothy Dan
Is a very rich man,
And he keeps all his wealth in his pockets:
Four buttons, a box,
The keys of two clocks,
And the chain of his grandmother Margaret’s locket.
A big piece of string
(It’s a most useful thing),
A watch without hands,
And three rubber bands,
Five glassy marbles,
Some tail-ends of chalk,
A squeaker that once
Made a golliwog talk,
A broken-down penknife
With only one blade,
And a little toy boat
That his grandfather made.

You’d never believe
(Hearing such a long list)
That there’s room in each pocket
For one little fist;
You’d never believe
That the smallest of boys
Could carry so much
In his wee corduroys.