A carrot in the toaster

The Easter Feast is a wondrous story
of Sacrifice, Hope and Love and Glory.
To children today; the things long ago,
may not seem true; not on facebook, you know.

Why choose a donkey, to ride into town?
Why not a carriage for a man of renown?
No red carpet for the path of a King,
Just Palm leaves strewn ‘neath the donkey and Him.

It’s hard to believe a man really would
suffer and die for other folk’s good.
Yet, Dad said, two fire-fighters recently died
saving some strangers, trapped there inside.

Excited children will hurry, when bidden,
to find chocolate eggs, playfully hidden.
Renewal of Life, these eggs represent
after carrying the cross through the six weeks of Lent.

He doesn’t mind the colour of our skin
or if one is fat or painfully thin,
ugly or beautiful, tiny or tall.
He gave us His Son to die for us all.

Then, three days later to rise and to live,
was not just for those who declare they believe
but to ‘not sure’ or ‘don’t know’; the world and his wife
and, on Easter Sunday, the true Gift of Life.

,© Marion Sharville

.
..ON THE NUMBERS ONE TO TEN.

ONE day, TO be sure,
the THREE of us
went FOR a stroll.
We met the girls
and climbed the FIVE-barred gate
into Ryan’s orchard

and there, the SIX of us
were in SEVENth heaven
as we romped in the long sweet grass
and ATE the forbidden fruit.

When the village clock struck NINE
we made our way to the pub
so as not to waste any more drinking time,
for TEN to ONE, TOmorrow
the THREE of us will go FOR a stroll
and meet some new girls…

It’s the beer that counts.

© Marion Sharville

The Parks and Gardens Committee
voted to scatter their dreams
along the grass verges of the A224.

No-one noticed the kick-start of life.

Cars swished through the dark tunnel
of winter, their drivers unaware of the gift.

Emerging, dormouse-eyed, they are
surprised by pools of daffodil gold;
a nodding acquaintance.

The Committee moves to another agenda.
The gift continues its sunburst fanfare
to Spring…
after Spring…
after Spring….…

© Marion Sharville

Young March steps from behind the long dark skirt of February, lightly toe-dipping into the fast-flowing year.
Cautiously, she caresses the trees, seeking sanctuary.

Emboldened by their welcome, she feels her feet, shakes off her fear, blows out her cheeks and starts to set her pulses wild,
a challenge, test of strength, a force within, a teen-age mutineer
having a fling; a skirt-lifting Whirling Dervish; a devil child.

Recklessly she shoots the rapids of the rooftops, searches every cranny for things to play with, until they’re spoiled.

A deceit of tempo lulls us, as she seems to slow and stop.
Her power drives her on though, without slackening, hurling dustbins, screaming like a banshee down chimneys, through locks.

The damage?…of no consequence. It’s beyond her reckoning.
Exhausted, spent, she succumbs to April’s gentle beckoning.

© Marion Sharville

I met him in the shoe shop,
he was trying on a shoe.
His socks were full of holes
but Oh!.. His eyes were blue.

Dad says he needs a haircut,
short back and sides would do.
I like his little pigtail
and Oh!.. His eyes are blue.

He wears Bob Dylan’s sweatshirt,
that was worn at every ‘Do’.
Mum says he should have washed it
but Oh!.. His eyes are blue.

I’m meeting him on Sunday,
what is a girl to do?
Mum says, to keep on walking
but Oh!.. His eyes are blue.

© Marion Sharville

Crisp January cleansed. The old year’s dead
and shriven as Spring lambs we can’t evade
the dreary days, the month that lies ahead.
Like purgatory, the crossing must be made.

Though leaden skies are clamped down and secure,
the sun may shine but doesn’t warm a thing.
The shortest month, yet longest to endure,
March bides her time to have her gusty fling.

Bleak February’s world is monochrome,
with all her colours drained and stored for Spring.
It seems this month has set her heart of stone
to sharpen up the rain for added sting.

A cruel time, when all is said and done
and yet…the snowdrops do not fear to come.

© Marion Sharville

You enter the windowless room.
Grief closes and bolts the door.
You are alone in utter darkness.
Others, outside, beat upon their wailing walls
but you do not hear.

Time has no meaning inside this room.
Minutes pass like years until, one day,
a chink of life sneaks in,
bringing a tentative touch of warmth.
Soft voices hammer against the silence,
calling to be let in.

Cautiously, you unfasten
the self-indulgent safety-chain
and peer out once more
into a world still ceaselessly
turning around you, where loved ones
have been patiently pacing the floor, ready
to offer you the kiss of life.

© Marion Sharville

Hung over from December,
January peers cautiously into the future.
The past year jogs her elbow…time to change.
Hope, around the open door of the New Year,
beckons…lighting the way.

The sharp winter cold
stirs the slurried taste of yesterday;
cleansing the palate to be
refreshed with new choices.

Braced, she strides forward,
trusting His promise that each false step
will not be irredeemable.

© Marion Sharville

On a day that’s cold and grey
the children act their Christmas play.
Their teachers have spent many hours
making cardboard sheep and cows.

Mixed infants gather on the stage
and shuffle to their places;
sit mums and dads, their glowing pride
lighting up their faces.

The shepherds and the Magi,
from distant lands have come,
at least along the corridor
from classroom number one.

Three tallest boys, with stuck on beards
are looking rather wary
in case the glue should come unstuck.
…and little Rose plays Mary.

The angels with their tinsel wings
below the star hung on a string,
are told to hover round about;
hands clasped in solemn prayer throughout.

The infant lying in the crib
is Joseph’s little brother Sid,
whose mum has lent him for the day,
the baby Jesus part to play.

He’d just arrived at home, whom mum
had called their ‘Little Stranger’
but he had slept in a nice clean cot,
not a grubby manger.

And young Joseph as he stood
beside the babe, felt really good
to be a part of this great story
of Peace and Joy and Love and Glory.

© Marion Sharville

(TO THE TUNE OF THE HOLY CITY)

Last night I lay asleeping
and then, the darn phone rang.
I picked it up and flung it,
it landed with a clang.
I heard her sweet voice crying
“Oh please return my call.”
Methought, whatever can I do?
What would be best of all?
Methought, whatever can I do?
What would be best of all?

An answer phone, an answer phone,
then if my love should ring
I’d sleep on, while she keeps on
and I wouldn’t hear a thing.

And then, methought, ‘hold on a bit,
this will not do at all,
if, in the morn, I phone her back,
they’ll charge me for the call.
It might be best to marry her;
then she will be right here.
Methinks, she can then snuggle up
and whisper in my ear.
Methinks, she can then snuggle up
and whisper in my ear.

No answer-phone, no answer-phone;
phone calls do not come cheap.
Methinks I’ll have to wed her,
then I can get some sleep.

© Marion Sharvile