When I were a Lass (maybe 1943/45) by mauveone.


When I were a lass,

We had “nowt”, less than “nowt”.

There was never money for new clothes.

Everything I owned was “handed down,

Or “passed on”.

Shoe colours were either black or brown.

My presents were either handmade, or

Rebuilt and repainted by my mum or uncles.

Grandma said “After the war, you’ll get

Easter Eggs tied with ribbon and Bananas,

You’ll love them”.

I had no idea what she was talking about,

I had never seen them.

This man in a uniform came sometimes,

My Mum said, “It’s your Dad”.

I was sent to sleep with my cousins

At my Aunties,

So they could “go out”

When I went home again he’d gone.

Then were these things called “Air Raids”.

Mum would wake me up and carry me

Outside, and into the Air Raid Shelter.

It was dull, dark and smelly.

Full of people, talking, singing and

Smoking. No one was sleeping.

The food wasn’t good,

I did not eat a lot, not powdered egg

Or corned beef hash, it was awful.

Grandma used to soak sultanas overnight

For me to have with my jam and bread.

I didn’t know then how bad things were

Everybody in our street was the same.

When I were a lass, we had “nowt”

A  whole lot of “nowt”.


Dark Hedges, Belfast by mauveone.

The avenue of Beech trees

planted in the late 1770’s

To impress the visitors

Approaching Gracehill House.


Pretty whippy Copper Beech

Saplings in Springtime colour

Were splendid.


Over the centuries, have grown

To be so sleek and slender,

in maturity.


A joy to behold in the

Summer, shading the traveller

From dazzle.


In winter time we can see

Their snake-like sinuous

Curving selves.


their high canopy forming

A tunnel over the road

Showing off the bright orange

Autumn leaves.


NOTE: These spectacular trees

Have become a Tourist attraction

after being shown on the film

“Game of Thrones”.


It is worth googling them to see

the wonderful photographs.





Refuge by Stephen Boyce.

What washes up in the forest is no less

a wonder that the flotsam of oceans.

Take this skeleton of an upturned ark

stranded among a reach of ash trees,

beached in leaf litter, its ribs and spars

secured by a rigging of twiggy larch,

tangles of plaited honeysuckle, all

leaning in as though wanting to give ear

to silence, breath the wood’s cool must.

Some Crusoe surely built this, laid limbs

against a fallen ridgepole, woven vines

and brushwood spread out a bed of brash,

learned how stillness is a state of mind,

here where things slither, drip and flinch.


NOTE: Published on the Woodland Trusts

facebook page.


Out of the night that covers me,

    Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

    For my unconquerable soul.


In the fell clutch of circumstance

    I have not winced or cried aloud,

Under the bludgeonings of chance

    My head is bloody, but unbowed.


Beyond this place of wrath and tears

    Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

    Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.


It matters not how strait the gate,

    How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

    I am the captain of my soul.

NOTE:  I thought that as the Invictus Games

are taking place in Australia, you might like

to see the Poem that was the inspiration for

their name.

The Inquisitive Mind of a Child. Anon.

A Poem for Remembrance Day


Why are they selling poppies, Mummy?

Selling poppies in town today.

The poppies, child, are flowers of love.

For the men who marched away.

But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?

Why not a beautiful rose?

Because my child, men fought and died

In the fields where the poppies grow.

But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?

Why are the poppies so red?

Red is the colour of blood, my child.

The blood that our soldiers shed.

The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.

Why does it have to be black?

Black, my child, is the symbol of grief.

For the men who never came back.

But why, Mummy are you crying so?

Your tears are giving you pain.

My tears are my fears for you my child.

For the world is forgetting again.

Author Unknown


Keys, the Bane of my Life by mauveone.

In our house, for keys, we have a place for each set.

BUT, are they in their place, NO.


I carefully return the keys to their designated place.

BUT, does the husband, No.


I am supposed to guess, they are in his trouser pocket.

In his dressing gown pocket.


Are the garage keys in the place that the car keys live?

No, they are on the dining room table.


Are the Conservatory door keys in place on the radiator?

No, they are by the kettle.

He was planning to make a coffee.


Why, oh Why are the front door keys on top of the shoe cupboard?

Why weren’t they left in the lock?

God help us if we have a fire.


All I can say is, “It is a good thing that all keys have spares

In the safe”. Or are they, has he been in there too?

Keys, such a simple thing, are the bane of my life.