Guilty Secrets

DC Sniffer flourishes a photo of a sheepish-looking me.

“Why were you entering this place of ill-repute, sir?” He calls me ‘sir’ as he tramples over flower-beds, shag-pile and shredded dignity, fig-leaf politeness excusing impertinent prying.

“Knickers,” I reply, “of the comedy-festive variety: cheaper in Primark than M&S.”

© Tim Scott
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Regrets

“Why exactly are we here?” quizzed Cathy, sweeping condensation from the cabin’s window to peer at cheerless ducks and the rain-streaked stonework of a canal bridge.

“Peter said …” began Tom.

“Yes, Peter! You follow him; stupidly, I follow you.” She began tapping on her phone. “Weak,” she snapped. “Weak.”

© Tim Scott
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Referendumwocky

'twas Brexit and the slithy gove
did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
all chortly were the boris: "Oh crikey!"
and the farage outgrabed.

Beware the stock market old son,
the gilts that spike, the shares that crash.
Beware that Junker bird and shun

the frumious backlash.

© Tim Scott
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'What we wish, we readily believe, and what we ourselves think, we imagine others think also.' - Julius Caesar

Michael stabbed the send button on his computer. That'll cook his goose, he thought: now they'll fall in line behind me. Nearly there. He licked his lizard lips.

Later, Boris fell on his sword.

Across town, though, hushpuppied Ken extolled a bloody difficult woman, hoping the camera was indeed running...

© Tim Scott
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Journey's end

"Are we nearly there?"
"Not quite. Just a bit further."
"How much further?"
"To the end of the road."

"I'm hungry."
"Well, have another sandwich."
"Yuck!"
"I'm bored."
"I need a wee."
"Stop! I feel sick."
"Ow! He pinched me."
"No I didn't. That's my I-pad. Give it back."
"Children, children!"

"Are we nearly there?"

© Sheila Rogers
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Nearly there

how many times

have I been
nearly there
better to travel in hope
than to arrive
O.K. then
is that an ice cream
van that I espy?
in my youth
I'd make that cry
In later years
it's round the next
bend would be
my cheerful lie

© W Botley
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My foot

Plastered and elevated
I'm crutched and hutched,

my arse grows roots
(and bottomly toots).

Then They vote Brexit,
I'm told: 'don't flex it!'

A hobbling five weeks
and my foot really reeks

and then is released...

(nearly there)

... to another black beast

but this boot can drive
in six weeks I'll arrive.

© Helen McIntosh
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Nearly there

Sparks of dust in a sunbeam -
I thought they were fairies:

My mother in her nylon petticoat.
Morning smell of toast and bacon;

wrapped in the backseat of the car
eye-spye with my little eye …

… the brow of a Devon hill
the sea a mirror of light!

© Valerie Taylor
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Nearly there...

…but is the grail a golden honey-bowl
full to the brim with goodness?
An empty can? Or worse -
a poisoned chalice which, in pain,
we come to curse?

Yet must we play our hopes a requiem?
Who’d choose to know the future?
Carpe diem!

© Gill Dunstan
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Don't do that!

Take a train to Nepal,
sleep out in the rain,
dance nude in Ibiza,
see ‘Star Wars’ again.

Adopt a big cat,
or howl at the moon,
try diving with sharks,
and playing pontoon.

I would even suggest
you fall in love madly.
But to fly from a window?
That’s bound to end badly!

© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved