Diary of a Church Mouse
Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open
hassocks,
Here where the vicar never looks
I nibble through
old service books.
Lean and alone I spend my days
Behind
this Church of England baize.
I share my dark forgotten room
With two oil-lamps and half a broom.
The cleaner never bothers me,
So here I eat my frugal tea.
My bread is sawdust mixed with
straw;
My jam is polish for the floor.
Christmas and Easter
may be feasts
For congregations and for priests,
And so may
Whitsun. All the same,
They do not fill my meagre frame.
For me the only feast at all
Is Autumn's Harvest Festival,
When I can satisfy my want
With ears of corn around the font.
I climb the eagle's brazen head
To burrow through a loaf of
bread.
I scramble up the pulpit stair
And gnaw the marrows
hanging there.
It is enjoyable to taste
These items ere
they go to waste,
But how annoying when one finds
That
other mice with pagan minds
Come into church my food to share
Who have no proper business there.
Two field mice who have no desire
To be baptized, invade the choir.
A large and most unfriendly
rat
Comes in to see what we are at.
He says he thinks there
is no God
And yet he comes ... it's rather odd.
This year
he stole a sheaf of wheat
(It screened our special preacher's seat),
And prosperous mice from fields away
Come in to hear our organ play,
And under cover of its notes
Ate through the altar's sheaf of
oats.
A Low Church mouse, who thinks that I
Am too
papistical, and High,
Yet somehow doesn't think it wrong
To
munch through Harvest Evensong,
While I, who starve the whole year through,
Must share my food with rodents who
Except at this time of the year
Not once inside the church appear.
Within the human world I
know
Such goings-on could not be so,
For human beings only
do
What their religion tells them to.
They read the Bible
every day
And always, night and morning, pray,
And just
like me, the good church mouse,
Worship each week in God's own house,
But all the same it's strange to me
How very full the church can be
With people I don't see at all
Except at Harvest Festival.
Seaside Golf
How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear'd the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker's back -
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.
And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp'd it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I'd find it on the green.
And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most surely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.
Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,. Lark song and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere