Moonrakers

Lunatic, Sir?
Come and see for yourself – here is the moon
in all her silver glory.  Full to the brim
and shimmering, as real as you and me.

Afflicted, Sir?
How can that be, for there she rests
all ready now for harvesting.
I simply need to rake her in.

Be gentle, Sir
as there are times you must stand back
to let her find herself.  And then
surprised, the prize is yours.

Moonraking, Sir
that’s what we do.  No fatuity
though I admit, she must be filled
and you be careful with your tines.

And so farewell
there’s work for all of us to do
you must search for brandy smugglers
while we sane people rake up the moon.

 

Wiltshire yokels, raking a pond for kegs of smuggled brandy, feigned lunacy when surprised by the excise men, saying that they were trying to rake out the moon, which was reflected in the water.

The Lunacy Act of 1842 defined a lunatic as someone ‘afflicted with a period of fatuity in the period following a full moon’.

Richard Westcott, for many happy years a GP in north Devon, now has no excuse not to get down to writing. He blogs at richardwestcottspoetry.com and he’s been pleasantly surprised to win a few prizes here and there. His pamphlet is published by Indigo Dreams – https://www.indigodreams.co.uk/richard-westcott/4594230918

Family Photograph Album

Everything then was very small,
black and white, and dim
like that little face-sized screen
looking up at us

as the family gathered round
in our little room
keen to see what we knew
was there and here, both

then and now, together.
Now by myself a long time later
I return, to look up close
at these little windows

each framed in white, panes
into the past, drained
of colour, in which I see
those long gone, and me

a little bundle tightly wrapped
in white and shaded
by her raised hand.
I know for certain

from the careful writing
in special ink – white of course
upon the dark brown page
I am here and there, am named,

held secure by little triangles
across each corner. Seasons pass
as pages turn, the baby grows
and walks while parents age

Grannies come and go.
Dinah the dog who shared the pram
sits quietly through the years
until some photos start to loosen

and captions peter out, to leave
blank pages. Prints and screens
along with cars and houses –
all have grown much bigger

now, I don’t need to go up close
and peer through little windows.
I am enlarged and full
of colour and of understanding.

 

Richard Westcott, for many happy years a GP in north Devon, now has no excuse not to get down to writing. He blogs at richardwestcottspoetry.com and he’s been pleasantly surprised to win a few prizes.  His pamphlet is published by Indigo Dreams