Bordeaux Bay

Bordeaux Bay
Watercolour by Tony Taylor

Tuesday, 12 December 2017


My country of birth, Northern Ireland, is enjoying an early snow-fall and, although its effects cause inconvenience for many, there's immense fun to be had in the snow, for parents and children alike, during the first few days.
Residents of East Belfast, where I grew up, gravitate en masse to the extensive parkland at Stormont. Last year's dusty toboggans reappear and are put back into service for a few carefree hours.

Parliament Buildings, Stormont, Belfast.

The seat feels quite precarious
but once I’m down, that feeling goes.
So odd to be this close to snow,
chilling the fingertips, the nose:
a child’s sensation, I suppose ...
most adults are incurious.

A snowy paradise, indeed,
this afternoon on Stormont hill
where children’s voices, wild and shrill,
applaud the crazy vaudeville
of adults launched, against their will,
downhill, on icy blades, at speed.

This granddad hugs his grandson tight
then edges forward with his heels
on modern blades of stainless steel.
The child, as agile as an eel,
wriggles. I feel, amidst his squeals,
toboggan shift, the sleigh take flight.

A longing for a lifetime lost,
assails me in the rushing wind.
The grandson to my parka pinned,
as once my daughter, angel-skinned,
clung to me then, our bodies twinned,
rocketing downward through the frost.

Stormont under snow.


Monday, 11 December 2017


An unpopular chap, the rat, unless he's of the fancy variety bred in captivity and kept as a pet.
Your average rat is a bit of an outlaw, constantly living on his wits and a figure of distaste for many.
The rat's had plenty of bad publicity: a James Herbert novel that demonized him, a grotesque cameo in American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis, and of course that terrifying scene in George Orwell's 1984, so we're bound to be prejudiced against him.
Nature's order, however, is always subject to change so here's some cautionary advice.


The jolly rat, though he be mild,
is universally reviled.
Indeed, he is a clever chap,
evading every baited trap
to gorge, content, on bread or seed
put out for chaffinches to feed
or nuts from cages hung for tits:
from these, he often purloins bits.
He is, undoubtedly, a pest:
of quadrupeds, far from the best,
but let’s be friendly to the rat
for one day, when our world goes splat
and we are foraging for scraps,
he may be out there baiting traps.

Saturday, 9 December 2017


Who can resist the awful smile of the predatory crocodile?


My favourite creature, by a mile,
is the repulsive crocodile.
He has a most endearing smile
and if you linger for a while
unwarily beside his swamp
he may lurch out at you and chomp
or sidle up to you and snap ...
he is an untrustworthy chap.
There’s no use shouting out to him
Oi, fetch me back my severed limb ...
He’ll stand his ground, he’s hard to rile,
and give you his endearing smile.

Thursday, 7 December 2017


This is a bad time of the year to be a turkey, although it’s probably fair to say that being a turkey at any other time is not particularly pleasing either.
Of all the birds one might choose to be, the turkey is probably pretty far down the list.
Turkeys don’t sing, they don’t soar and, additionally, they’re really rather ugly.
Jane and I will not be adding to the massive slaughter of these unfortunate creatures this year. We have alternative culinary plans.


We have grown fat, my friends and I,
and although some birdbrains say
these gifts of food Men bring us
must be treated with suspicion,
this I doubt.
I feed on corn aplenty and rejoice,
grow plumply satisfied and portly stout.
My fellows fast become inflated too:
such fine birds with no work at all to do.  

I call the doubters paranoid and mock
their pessimistic attitudes and gloom.
Another feast arrives, I gulp it down
then gobble thankful sounds
and strut about.
We grow each day more pillowy and sleek.
Our future is assured, our species blessed.
This is the life, I think, no need to fear:
December is the season of Good Cheer.

Tuesday, 5 December 2017


For those of you who may have wondered, here's the answer to a question that's caused you sleepless nights.


The Unicorns, a charming pair,
had matching horns and silver hair,
at parties, always, I believe,
first to arrive and last to leave.
A couple, extrovert and chic,
each with a fabulous physique,
so muscular, whiter than white,
with shiny hooves, reflecting light.
A perfect couple, all agreed,
and never likely to stampede.
But when the Great Flood came to pass
and Noah started to amass
all Creatures of the Earth to board
he was, by Unicorns, ignored.
What foolishness, they both agreed,
this puddle surely will recede.
(They had a tendency to scoff.)
It rained. It poured. The Ark set off.
As rising water reached their chins,
they lost their smug complacent grins.
and when it reached their horns, they frowned
till they, inevitably, drowned.

So that, today, alas, explains
why not one Unicorn remains.

Sunday, 3 December 2017


Who can possibly love the subject of today's poem? 
Physically unattractive and with repulsive dietary habits, the vulture tops no one's list of endearing creatures.
Rarely portrayed favourably in literature, there is however an amusing poem by Hilaire Belloc entitled The Vulture
Here's my version.


While other birds are ultra-cute,
the vulture is an ugly brute:
someone you wouldn’t want to meet
when stumbling onward through the heat,
with parched throat, arms and legs gone numb,
half dizzy with delirium.
It would upset most people’s nerves, 
the thought of being his hors d’oeuvres.

Friday, 1 December 2017


The animal world encompasses extremes. Elephant and mouse, gorilla and guinea pig: all manage to survive on this amazing planet and seem to confirm that size doesn't matter. 
Today's poem is about that astoundingly elongated creature, the giraffe.


The lofty giraffe, it would seem,
is vertical in the extreme.
With head and hoof so far apart,
his height is almost off the chart.
He is unquestionably thin
and has exotic mottled skin.
His neck leads to a freakish head
that he can easily embed
in foliage that just cannot
be reached by creatures short and squat,
but when he runs, with loping stride
and head held high as though with pride,
perhaps for joy, perhaps in flight,
he is a most ungainly sight.