~ 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!