Marion Sharville ©

I am singing while I’m driving
on the great M-Twenty-Five
and it is the sort of morning
one feels glad to be alive.

I am happy, in my Mini,
my simple heart is full of smiles.
Take it easy, nice and steady,
keep my speed at fifty miles.

I am feeling full of love, the
whole wide world is my best friend.
Surely, three cars at the same time,
cannot pass me at this bend?

I suppose they’re in a rush,
a special place they have to go,
as for me, my time’s my own
I’ve lost all my ‘get up and go’.

Blooming cheek though, edging me
on that hard shoulder, what a nerve!
They’d have mown me down for certain.
…I’m rather proud of that quick swerve.

Well, now they’ve gone and I’m alright,
yet, in my mirror, I can see
a line of lorries, foreign drivers,
all intent on killing me.

Two are coming from the inside
to join us on the motor way.
Four or five are on my bumper,
my Mini has the right of way.

I hate those lorries, hate the folks
who disregard our Highway Code.
I am feeling misanthropic,
I must get off this bloody road.

© Marion Sharville



In the ignorance of childhood
the straight and narrow
was clearly defined.
I did not stray.

With the passing of the years
I acquired knowledge
and the ability
to get lost,

© Marion Sharville


                       TREASURE ISLAND

The foyer, a hive of parents; small off-spring,
in lurex and cardboard, are teacher-whisked away.
The hive disperses, the buzz settles, expectantly.

The curtain rises on parrots, rainbow-costumed,
feathered, hooded and beaked; back stage creations
alive now, tiny arms flailing in simulated flight.

Unsynchronised bemused infants search the shadowed
rows for their own safe familiar belaying-pins
as they straggle off stage, beckoned and cajoled.

Suddenly, an explosion of music; pirates and wenches
flood the stage as Treasure Island erupts with
whirling skirts and clashing swords, adrenaline fed;

a hurricane of colour; tempest of sound as Mrs Reardon’s
spring-loaded arms pound the school piano and nodding head
elevates the untrained voices to concert pitch.

Junior school, class two, sails the ocean. A dropped sword
and gingham bonnet lie abandoned on the wooden beach,
deserted now, awaiting hurried change of scene.

Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver, surrounded by small
mixed infants, gold and silvered into pieces of eight,
weave their way through the plot, upheld by the

unflagging crashing waves of teacher’s music and her wide
all-encompassing smile. Pride of achievement soaring
now on the tumultuous acclaim from the audience.

The foyer, a hive again with Mums and Dads and Grannies
waiting with coats and praise and McDonald promises.

© Marion Sharville

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