copper burns across an endless sky
competing caws claim salt, surf and sand
sailing high above slowly sagging carcasses
long forgotten at the edge of the world
buckled rails swim over a shimmering shingle sea
the largest of its kind, hinting at some other time;
engines once chugged to billingsgate from this beach
herring bound for the cinque ports
and they say women dragged each boat -
pulled them down to that shore’s faithless embrace;
the muttered prayers of mothers and daughters
casting their men out on fortune’s dark waters
now nets, set for a tide that came and went, lay
mouldering among those collapsing clinkers
as if the fisherfolk just left one night, fled
granting the gulls sole control of that desolate dominion
their toil and trade, the legacy of our fathers’ fathers
still lays there on that beach; haunts that huge cove
rich history, like in so many places, fading away
rotting, rusting, ruined
Categories:
billingsgate, beach, bird, boat, feelings,
Form: Free verse
The gnu in the crew
Didn’t know what to do
He was feeling a wee bit bumfuzzle
For the bear in the middle
Spoke pure taradiddle
And he was just part of the puzzle
He called out “gardyloo
Yes, I’m talking to you
You’ve turned us about widdershims”
Then he heard billingsgate
From another shipmate
With language not found in church hymns
Now he felt gollywobbles
From all of their squabbles
And wanted to set the crew straight
“We must turn cattywampus
And follow the compass
And do it before it’s too late.”
Like sickersnees through some butter
An encouraging utter
“I think we can keep up the pace”
And soon by some gubbins
By hard rowing and pumpin’s
They found themselves back in the race
I was asked to write a poem using all those weird words you see. You might have to look them up in a dictionary to get the true meaning of some of the lines.
Categories:
billingsgate, language, silly,
Form: Rhyme
It so early it's only four o'clock and it's dark on a freezing cold and wet morning,
A man with a cap rings a bell to let us know times getting on and dawn’s dawning,
As the bell rings all the lights on at Billingsgate Market famous for it's fish,
Lighting all the fishy stalls and the dark walkways selling seafood's for a dish,
Haddocks and plaice packed in boxes with ice for many chip shops, frying tonight,
Fresh the same day for a restaurant for weight watchers who want something light,
A strong smell ozone wafts around the whole fish market from the prostrate cod,
Caught in big trawler nets by weathered fishermen on the sea with nets not a rod.
Sellers in this market shout aloud fishy slogans like, ‘Wink-wink-wink-winkles’,
Have em with some salt, pepper and vinegar that you can ‘Spri-spri-spri-sprinkle’,
Railway carts shunting, clashing, banging rolling along tangles of narrow streets,
From the Monument to the market their shouting is matched by the seagulls shriek.
A fleet of horse drawn carts take fish to nearby shops dropping off boxes outside,
Over cobblestone, waking all as they thunder along bouncing in uncomfortable rides.
Categories:
billingsgate, history, dark, dark, fish,
Form: Prose Poetry