Thanks Muddy. Some thing I actually witnessed, on an RSPB bird watching trip.
There is some cracking stuff here. Thanks for starting the thread.
Iâll have a think and see if I can come up with something new.
All my previous poems and stories have been left on the old site, now archived at the bottom of this forum.
You could find them & copy & paste them here, Fruitcake.
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A SHARED LUNCH.
A touch, a nudge,
the warmth of feathers
at my ankles. A lone Coot
or Moorhen perhaps ? - not sure.
Insistent pecking at my sandal,
guilt tripping my meagre meal.
OK - I give in - and throw
a corner from my sandwich,
followed by a crisp or two.
There is a manic squawking,
a honking, a quacking,
a whirring rush of wings.
Suddenly I am up to
my knees in water birds !
© 2021
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This one was published on the Cottingley web page, but I think they have now removed it.!
A Fairy Story
Two little girls, a century ago
Crossed a stream in their garden to play
âBut we can see no Fairies hereâ
âWeâll perhaps see some todayâ.
Then a game they made to show
That Fairies were indeed there
In that lovely garden, a long long time ago.
They borrowed Daddyâs camera
And filmed Fairies flying round
With gossamer outstretched
And showed all what theyâd found.
The people were astonished
They couldnât understand
How children so young, inexperianced
Had filmed a Fairy band.
No one could find a flaw
In the pictures the children took
And all declared them genuine
Then someone wrote a book.
Their fame spread far and wide
People flocked to see
The stream and the glade
Where the Fairies were said to be.
But, like all things human
The excitment soon went away
Leaving that lovely garden
Littered, broken and grey.
All the damage that was done
The Family did repair
The children, to their Parents
Said, âNever again, we swearâ.
Many years have passed
Since that fateful day
The children, now old ladies
Came clean, as to how they
Had filmed the Fairies in the glen
With cardboard cutouts on cotton strings
And cellophane
For Fairy wings.
Best wishes from Tiff.
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Summer
Towel spread upon the sand,
Taut muscles and suntanned skin,
To get a natural look like this,
Takes hours in the gym.
Plump, clotted cream fed backsides,
Earn women an admiring look,
A manâs wife sees him watching,
And whacks him with her book.
Strolling on the promenade,
Lovers walking hand in hand,
Tossing coins in to the fountain,
Listening to a one-man-band.
Skaters race along the seafront,
Dodging in and out the crowd,
A Traffic Warden berates a driver,
âParking here is not allowedâ.
Ice creams melting in the sun,
Seagulls swooping from the sky,
Flapping wings, a stolen flake,
Makes a small child cry.
Eating pasties on a wall,
Skin burnt lobster red,
An old man in a deck chair,
A hanky on his head.
Caravans stuck in narrow lanes,
Tempers rise, men shout,
A farmer on her tractor,
To pull the grockles out.
Roadside signs to draw the eye,
âFarmhouse Scrumpy sold by hereâ,
Barbecues upon the beach,
People drinking fizzy beer.
Picnics up on top the Tor,
The Levels down below,
Where Summer Settlers once farmed the land,
Then left when it did snow.
Bed and breakfast, glamping huts
Campsites in the rain,
Tourists flock down from the North,
Itâs summer time again.
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Lovely stuff. I like how they both tell a story
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Both things I saw, Fruitcake & had to write about. 
Sometimes we forget that our emergency service personal often have to be professional drivers as well.
This is based on an event I witnessed about a year before the pandemic.
The Shout
Cars and busses, heavy traffic,
People milling all around,
Then I hear it coming,
That so distinctive sound.
Waiting at a bus stop,
Sitting, head down in a book,
The wailing noise approaching,
I pause to take a look,
Green and white, with spinning strobes,
Alternate headlights flash,
Through a gap between two cars,
The driver makes a dash.
She stares hard, straight ahead,
Sirens echo off the wall,
Up the hill on blues and twos,
An ambulance on a call.
Driver scanning left and right,
Danger all about,
Sirens change to high pitch warble,
An ambulance on a shout.
Slowing at the junction,
Making sure all is clear,
Welly down and on she goes,
The golden hour is dear.
On and on and up the hill,
Hard right turn ahead,
Flashing past a line of cars,
The lights have turned to red.
Carving through the traffic,
Slicing with precision like a knife,
On and round and out of sight,
To save somebodyâs life.
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I like that, Fruitcake.
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Brilliant poems folks 
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Dipper Spring
I sat on the bench by the river
My binoculars on my knee
I didnât actually need them,
She was so close to me
Busily flying with moss in her bill
To the place sheâd decided to nest
While her lazy mate stood on a rock
But she didnât take any rest.
The place she had chosen was high in the bank
Beside the waterfall
Her mate was leaving her to it
But occasionally he would call
She didnât answer him
And her expression said it all.
I could have stayed all day
Though I had to leave them be
Housewifely duties called
And I had to go home and get tea.
I visited the bench again
Later in that same Spring
On the bank of the river
Where the Dippers sing
On a dead tree branch under the nest
Four baby Dippers in a row
Parents were feeding them all in turn
They looked about ready to go.
Amazed that Iâd seen them
Such a lucky girl was me
Something Iâve never forgotten
Which happened so unexpectedly.
Another poem I wrote about something I saw.
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Letterboxing.
My friend & I had searched Dartmoor.
Following the letterbox lore
Weâd visited places weâd not have seen,
If letterboxing had never been.
From our home and base weâd go,
West, East, or North in rain or snow,
To Blacktor, Yes Tor, High Willhayes,
Princetown also (but not the same days).
With maps & compass, food & drink,
It was Burrator the last I think.
Weâve seen the moor in rain & fog,
(And fallen into many a bog),
In Summer sun with glorious view,
Wild plants, birds & ponies too.
So thanks to those who started our fun,
Good luck to all who carry it on,
Dartmoor boxes we hope youâll stay,
And give pleasure to others who go that way.
Another pastime I used to love. Sadly age has stopped me now.
I have been copying & pasting these from our original forum. If anyone wants the link I can post it?
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Sorry
If it donât Rhyme
Its a Crime.
Its about time folks got points on their Poetic Licence. 
I have to disagree with that. There are hundreds of poetry forms and most do not call for rhyming.
But I know some think rhyming is the only way poetry sounds right to them. I write in many forms and many of them do not rhyme. But to each his/her own, thatâs what makes the world so interesting. 
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Yes, could not agree more, each to their own.
That is a lovely poem, RightNow.
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I agree with Tiff.
Thatâs lovely RightNow.
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