Stars in Jars (12 page)

There's bladder wrack and razor shells,

and waves which rise and crash

and bubble to the shore.

At first the sea feels icy cold,

you scream and run away.

“Come back Ruksar,” it says to you,

“Try again, be bold.”

You teeter on the edge a while

then stretch your arms and launch into the surf.

Your eyes are bright,

you smile out loud,

your body shakes with a watery laugh.

On Monday a midwife toad

jumps through raindrops from the hermitage

to watch Mike barbeque –

a green gingham oven glove.

On Tuesday three yellow butterflies

with clouded judgment get a lift on a snowflake

to watch Mike barbeque –

the pig bin.

On Wednesday five underprivileged crickets

fly on the wind from the San Pedro valley

to watch Mike barbeque –

a lifetime's supply of chewing gum.

On Thursday eleven wasps from the post box

ignore the thunder

to watch Mike barbeque –

the neighbour's washing line.

On Friday fourteen roe deer

spring from the sunshine in a nearby field

to watch Mike barbeque –

a three-legged clog.

On Saturday seventeen gruff griffon vultures

drop in from Dobres, not a care for the frost,

to watch Mike barbeque –

two Golden Jubilee balloons.

On Sunday Mike ski jumps

over the cable car at Fuente Dé.

The pressure is low, the sky is clear,

the snow is as firm as a boned leg of lamb.

As if being sunk in a bowl of soapy water wasn't enough,

now I'm pegged by my left ear

between blue shorts

and a pair of jogging bottoms.

I'm dry to my nose,

my legs are sodden,

and I'm dripping from my woolly toes.

I must hang here while they go

climbing castles,

skimming stones,

poking jellyfish.

Then I'm expected to listen to their adventures

when they get home!

Well I won't!

I will shut my ears,

purse my lips

and clench my fists.

They won't know the difference.

I am a Cornish limpet,

been here for a hundred years,

sucking and gripping and sticking to this stone

with a hundred thousand fears.

What if I get put in a bucket

and dumped in the boot of a car,

with wellies and jellies and a windbreaker

and a shell in the shape of a star?

I'd miss my chats with the ancient crab,

the swell and wash of the tide,

the soothing stroke of anemones,

the storms when the fish come and hide.

But I hang on tight and hope for the best,

I avoid anyone with a spade,

when the sun beats down in a glisten on the sea,

my fears begin to fade.

Was I a wildman or was I a merman?

Did I have whiskers or was it a tail?

None of this matters, since 1167

I've learnt to be strong,

as strong as a whale.

Back then I was caught

in nets with the fishes,

I floundered with flounder,

was mocked by a haddock,

I laughed at the soul of a Dover sole.

Strung up by my feet

you questioned my silence.

I ask you – how could I speak

of the deep to those who don't know

that the sea is darker than a December night,

that the sea is deeper than amethyst,

that the sea can wrap you in an iron clasp,

that the sea can whisper, and the sea can rasp?

You let me swim between lines of nets,

I dipped and dived and found my way free.

For eight hundred years I've soared the waves,

never been caught, been allowed to be.

I'm back to tell you I'm neither

merman nor monster,

nor a fiend nor a ghoul.

I'm the spirit of the sea.

And I'm nobody's fool.

The Merman of Orford is said to have appeared in or around 1167
.

For Westcott First School near Dorking

You can't let your standards slip on ship,

there may be rats and a bilge water stench,

but I take care to always indulge

in a little late night pampering.

The sun and wind play havoc with my skin,

so when the lights go dim at eight

I smooth my face with a very large tin

of soothing yellow lanolin.

As the hulk creaks and my shipmates snore,

we rock and roll with the waves.

I rub my feet with jasmine oil,

just as my fourteenth wife did on shore.

Lavender and musk are a must

to inhale after hours of smoke from cannons,

I pour three drops on my sack of a pillow –

sound sleep will surely follow?

Lanolin is a fatty substance found on sheep's wool which is used in moisturizer

Piccalilli is a yellow child

with an onion for her head.

Her legs are stalks of cauliflower,

she lies on a mustard bed.

You can't mistake Bottle Top,

for whenever he is near,

a distinctive rattle, clink-clonk-click

is all that you will hear.

Bottle Top and Piccalilli

are truly best of friends.

If he rattles on, or she gets too sour,

they always make amends.

One day they went to the seaside,

a man spotted Lill on the sands,

he shoved her inside his sandwich

with his great big pork pie hands.

B.T. was quick into action,

he danced on Pork Pie's head,

his eyes rolled around at the awful sound

and his face went Ribena red.

Lill slipped away to the ocean,

Bottle Top was soon on her tail,

they had a very nice day at Westgate Bay –

Pork Pie was squashed by a whale.

It's a boat in the air,

it swings and it rocks.

it carries a pair of glasses,

two books, a pair of holey socks.

It's stripy and it's dappled,

it lies in dark and shade,

it's a place to float away,

to forget the existence of clocks.

The answer to this riddle is somewhere in this book!

This is the moment I dread,

my eyes sting with smoke,

my ears sing with cannon fire.

I see the terror rise inside me,

coil a rope in my belly to keep it down.

I chant inside my head to freeze my nerve.

Main mast, mizzen mast, foremast
,

belfry, capstan, waist
.

We must keep the fire coming.

If I dodge the sparks

my cartridge will be safe,

if I learn my lessons

I can be a seaman,

if I close my eyes to eat my biscuit

I will not see the weevils.

Main mast, mizzen mast, foremast
,

shock lockers, bowsprit, gripe
.

Don't stop to put out that fire,

run to the hold,

we must fire at them

or they will fire at us.

Main mast, mizzen mast, foremast
,

belfry, capstan, waist
.

My mother never knew me,

but she would want to know this –

I can keep a cannon going,

I do not need her kiss.

Before 1794 children aged 6 upward went to sea. After 1794 the minimum age was 13
.