by BERYL YEOMANS, Bicton
There are some things I suffer in silence
though these are becoming more rare
since I learned to become quite assertive
and realised that people do care.
I’m loathe to make false accusations
but I’ve got some suspicions, alright,
is somebody stealing my cockroach
by stealth, in the dead of the night?
Snuggly wrapped in my great weekly paper
I was once quite assured that there’d be
a huge, handsome, fat, flying cockroach
lying in wait for me.
Is it theft, or a policy change now?
I’m writing this note to protest
‘cos I’m met with a great big fat nothing
when I search for my weekly pest.
I don’t mind you filling the paper
with news of events that abound
but there’s no joy like finding a cockroach
and stomping it into the ground.
by LACHLAN MAYWOOD
The waves sing in dulcet tones to the shore
The sand plays a melody of luxury in the warmth of the sun
The wind plays an orchestral track worthy of kings and emperors to all who listen
The gulls circle overhead, discussing every crotchet and quaver they hear in squawks
The fish leap to better catch the symphony being played
I hear it all, eavesdropping in the summer heat