~ Ting ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~
~
We have in our yard an unusual shed,
A structure for storing things,
Tis metal-clad from top to toe,
Ideal for those with wings.
~
Upon its roof birds perch or roost,
They sit or stand and sing, but,
Such a throng, so strong in song,
Makes the tin-shed ring!
~*~
~ Plum Crumble ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~
~
A cold winter’s day, rustling leaves,
Splaying branches, swaying trees,
I hungered for something that’d please,
Food to appease my taste buds.
~
In need of sweet my stomach rumbled,
So to the diner where pudding crumbled,
There sat I whilst musing mumbled,
Reading aloud their new menu.
~
Desserts distracted but my eye attracted,
By a dish made with plum.
“Perfect,” I said, imagining the taste:
Fruit flavours danced on my tongue.
~
Shortly thereafter the waitress arrived,
“Ready to order, or more time to decide?”
“Thank you,” I said, “plum-crumble for me,
A favourite dish I choose regularly.”
~
Short minutes passed when then at last,
The waitress returned with a swish.
Smiling she said, “tis the last dish,
Lucky for you, you can have what you wish.”
~
“Wonderful! Thank you. But before you go,
There’s something more I’d like to know.
Are you able to reveal the full recipe,
What ingredients I need, specifically?”
~
“I’ll go get chef,” she politely said,
I’m sure he’ll oblige your question.”
“Thank you,” I said watching her thread,
Between tables towards the kitchen.
~
In the blink of an eye chef stood beside,
He was rotund with a smiling face.
“The recipe,” said he, laughing merrily,
“Begins in the marketplace!”
~
“A fruiterer I know who locally grows,
The best product money can buy.
800 grams of ripe rich plums,
So sweet!” he exclaimed with a sigh.
~
“To which I add a generous measure,
4 t’spoons of organic date sugar.
Then into the mix, crushed almond stick,
50 grams should give it a kick.”
~
“Next I use squeezed lemon juice,
Four t’spoons to add some zest.
Last but not least vanilla sugar,
Adding 1 peck to all the rest.”
~
“As for the topping,” he said without stopping,
Start with 150 grams of butter.
Sugar comes next, white cane is best:
150 grams of saccharine matter.”
~
“250 grams of flour – type 550,
Sieved into a bowl nice and slow.
Then 50 grams of almond flour,
Stir it well with elbow power.”
~
“Next, 1 peck of vanilla sugar,
Now nearly ready for the cooker,
Last, not least, add to the equation,
1 t’spoon full of lemon abrasion!”
~
“And there you have it,” chef declared,
“My recipe for crumble, duly aired.
Tis sufficient for four, perhaps even more,
Depending on how it’s shared.”
~
“Thank you,” I said, “a very tasty treat,
But far to much for one to eat!
Why not join me? Have a seat,
Take some weight off your feet.”
~
“Delicious,” I said, “that’s the best!
So much better than all the rest.
Almond and lemon gives it real shine,
My word this dish is truly divine!”
~
And so it was now happily sated,
I paid the waitress, who kindly waited,
And thanking chef, I made my way,
Striding home on a cold winter’s day.
~*~
~ Dhalia ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~
~
La flor Preciosa, petaled spring sculpture,
Dressed scarlet red with golden centre,
Blossoming to flower in sunlit rapture,
Fragrant sweet Dahlia, La flor Hermosa.
~*~
~ On Meeting Santa ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~
~
I met him once, Santa Claus
He red-robed with beard of snow,
Twas only briefly, albeit fleetingly,
When then he had to go.
~
Aged five was I, one Christmas Eve,
When young enough to still believe,
I’d descended stairs on hands and knees,
To wait beneath the Christmas tree (for Santa)
~
I awoke at three quite unexpectedly,
Disturbed by a dull, feint pop.
Something dropped from the chimney breast,
Flopped into the hearth with a plop!
~
I wasn’t afraid, I had no doubt,
I knew what this was all about,
This was how Santa got in the house,
Down the chimney, quiet as a mouse!
~
Sleepily, sheepishly, I asked out loud,
“Santa is that really you?”
I heard a rustle, a small kerfuffle,
Then Santa stepped into view!
~
I know I gaped, perhaps I stared,
Maybe I was a little scared,
For this was Santa, the real McCoy,
Santa Claus who brought such joy!
~
“Shouldn’t you be asleep,” he said,
“Tightly tucked-up in your bed.”
He wasn’t angry, he didn’t loom,
His jolly radiance filled the room!
~
I must confess in being impressed,
Santa was less rotund than assumed.
For tis his plight to eat every bite –
Treats left ‘For Santa’ must be consumed.
~
But yet, Santa Claus was almost svelt:
Athletic, with an upright frame,
I couldn’t fathom how he stayed in trim,
So Santa took time to explain.
~
“Ah,” said he, “there’s no mystery,
No polar magic to reveal,
On Christmas Eve, I race at pace,
Delivering gifts with zest and zeal.”
~
“I’ve so many stops, so many drops,
My sleigh is piled so high,
But to complete my feat, to remain so fleet,
I must eat every mince-pie!”
~
“Then away I go, across the sky –
Burning calories as I fly,
Such great effort needs vast energy,
That’s why I’m a slimmed-down me!”
~
Santa knelt at the base of the tree,
Quietly whispering, said to me,
“I know you’ve been a very good boy,
“Tis why I give this magical toy.”
~
From inside the sleeve of his red jacket,
Santa pulled out a small, wee packet,
“For you,” he said, cheeks rosy red,
“The only item on your list I read.”
~
Wrapped in paper tied with string –
It could’ve been anything! But,
A wooden box with jade-like tone,
Inside of which, lay a single stone.
~
My eyes lit up, my smile wide,
Such joy I felt, I couldn’t hide!
“Keep it safe, use its magic well,
Never reveal, never tell!”
~
“I promise,” I said, “I’ll do right,
The stone will never leave my sight!
I can sense it stirring: it’s calling me,
Wish! it cries, set yourself free!”
~
By now enchanted: was this a dream?
My smile broadened into a beam,
Reaching for Santa, I squeezed him tight,
Then back to sleep til morn’s first light.
~*~
~ Charlie Scarecrow ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~
~
In warming soil a scarecrow stood,
Amidst snow-melt and shrubbery.
Patiently attending to tender-tips
For their journey of discovery.
~
Beneath his robes of rag and straw,
In a place we’ll never know.
Beats Nature’s heart, still ever-green,
From where his scarecrow flows.
~
I’ve seen him hold both birds and bees,
And talk to Owls high up in trees.
I’ve heard him whistle as he works,
And heard him snoring as he shirks!
~
Once I saw him harvesting stars,
From the boughs of the Milky Way.
I watched him gift ’em to fairy-folk,
To help light-up their way.
~
He had no name when he came to me,
And dug himself in the ground.
“Charlie,” said mum, as if she knew,
And then his name was found!
~
Charlie always chats with mum,
Whilst she’s pottering away.
I’ve asked her what they talk about,
But she’s very reluctant to say.
~
Her rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes
Have led me to conclude,
That Charlie her gardening scarecrow
Is more than herbaceously shrewd!
~*~
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