St Mawes Bakery Shop:

Oh come on in….!

Bakery caf high tide


Oh come on in and savour
The real St Mawesian flavour!

Make sure you say hello

two or three saffrons

To the buns of saffron yellow
And to the lovely staff of course
They’re such a friendly force.

‘Piping hot pasties’ is what they‘re all about,
Superbly crafted, the quality is not in doubt.

Cornish pasties

Whether steak or cheese and veg
All are made with a crusty edge.
And if the shop is running low
The Bakery has another batch on the go.

Round topped loaves
Are piled up in droves
You prefer large flat whites?
They are stacked to the heights.

fresh bread rolls
Here too the Granaries and Cob
Show they do a real proper job
Though Bloomers and French sticks
Are full of humour: there are NO French Knicks!

Scones loaded with much fruit
Form a fantastical loot

fresh fruity scones

And Cornish Hevva cake
Sits ready, freshly baked.
While those pastries thickly iced
Are too good for the mice.

danish pastries
(Fortunately they haven’t any
Not even sugar ones for a penny)

Pasties and Sausage rolls
Bacon bites and butties
Any food that fits a hole
As easily as putty!

suasage rolls

Cups of coffee, cups of tea
Chocolate drinks and some fizzy
Wash it all down in great company
Here they are, by the side of the sea.

And waiting to serve are the Bakery staff
Smiling and chatting and having a laugh!
They’ll cover, in a day, a myriad of topics
Including, you’ve guessed it, some local gossip
Also: Politics – correct or not! –
Football, singers: who’s really hot!
So don’t hang about
Come open the door
You can check them all out
Between eight and four!

Bakery caf

Sunshine and Caves



Vitamin D

Glaring at me

Kindness and warmth

Sharing with me

Food in abundance

Eaten in Sundance

Drink a-plenty

The glass never empty.


Beers, wine and good whisky

And more of the same

From imbibing so much:

No suggestion of shame

!booze spain











single person in bed

Confined to bed, weak and ill

Abandoned alone lacking in will

Wrapped in blankets,sheets and duvets

All week long, not just on Tuesdays.


I’m filling my time

Thinking up rhymes

Hardly able to do anything

But wanting to do many things

There’s a poem to make
And a picture to paint
There’s a garden to tend,
While I mend.

There’s a letter to pen
Maybe even ten,
There are spuds to peel
While I heal.

There’s washing to do
Crocks and dishes too
Shopping to buy
While I revive.

There’s a walk to take,
And cakes to bake
A hill to climb
At this very time.

I don’t want to write a letter
I just want to feel better
I don’t want to be a bore
I just want to restore.

I can no more be a poet
Than I can play a duet
I ca’t do my  best
When I need to rest

I can do without the walk,
If I could maybe have a talk
I can miss out on the cake
It only keeps me awake.

Will the doc have me treated
i hope this illness can be cheated,
Meanwhile I stick to daydreaming
That my life will soon have more meaning.

cartooon illness







How now brown cow?


How now brown cow

Who art thou?

Thou canst not miaow

Nor yet take a vow

So niether kittens for thee

Nor mittens I see.

Thou hast a bigger coat

Than any nanny goat

Thou too maketh milk

And goods of that ilk.

Thy large pink udders

Do they shrink or shudder

At the liberty humans take?

“Oi, let them eat cake!”

Tramplest the mud 2

Thou tramplest the mud

And cheweth the cud.

Thou canst plough

Yay! Take a bow!

Thy tail may flail

but the fliles won’t pale

And those wee horns

Are ne’ery so forlorn

When they put the fear of God

Into any passing rambler!

Birthday Backgammon


April fool jack-in-a-box                 backgammon 6      


Three would be players
Wondered what to do
“One dropped quickly out,
Then there were two.
Two tired players
Tried to understand the rools,
One had very bad eyesight
T’other was an April Fool
One lonely birthday girl
Looked rools up on google,
But it all became too much
And she gave up, the silly schoolgirl!”

April fool 2



Oh I live in Cornwall Too



Oh I live in Cornwall too

Mr Aka Cibo, I do!

For here we’ve hit the grand slam

As we don’t give a damn

If the weather is grey or blue!

Cornwall is a riot


‘Cause sometimes it’s a riot


Sometimes its quiet

And sometimes it is quiet.



Sometimes it’s a frenzy

Sometimes only Wednesday!

But it is always a glory

Through and through.



St Mawes sunset

My Ode to the Dandelion

IMG_4071.JPG               Dandelion, November picked

Hail most proud and jaunty lion

Colourful as Hawaiian

Pushing thro’ tarmac ‘n grasses

Shaking those golden tresses

Eye catching as a Mohican

With brighness of a beacon,

Not the shyness of Geisha

But the beauty of Mona Lisa

Even though more common

And far less solemn!


Dog toothed, dragon-backed leaves

Adorn my plate, on you I sate.

Tho deceptively limp, you are no wimp!

Your tender tips come easy to my lips

And from thence arouse my tongue,

Exuding warmth to belly and lung.

From that first peppery  bite,

You give off a wee fight

As you kick through the salad

Enhancing my palate,

Your lively taste runs wild with wicked grace.


Gentle infusion, granting a suffusion

Of remedies to correct many maladies

Those that weaken the soma, and your fresh lively aroma

Kindles, cares and succours,

Bringing us vitamins and minerals

Nourishment for health and nutrients for invalids.

We eat of your buds and munch on your flowers

Pulled from commons, banks and from well planted bowers

We eat of your leaves at our hearth when we dine

We roast of your root and we toast with your wine.


We took milky sap from your stem to kill warts

You’re good for our liver, our gall stones – all sorts.

You are a laxative, a sedative an aid to digestion,

You help us with jaundice, hepatitis and water retention.

To think that sometimes folk speak of ‘those weeds’

If they only knew half, just a half, of your deeds.


So I simply ‘dig’ you,  you wild flaming beauty

I dig you from the grass where you’re doing your duty

Your tap root holds sound

To help you emblazon the ground

I prise up your toughened root,

That feeds yon tender shoot

And I dig you out with care, not fast or hasty

Because I dare, knowing you will be tasty

When you are brushed and scrubbed and baked

And ground then steeped I will drink to be slaked.

I drink to you mon amour, my weedy paramour

My arrogant haughty teasing monsieur

I drink of you my cheery, my petit pissenlit.

Hey, I would not have you in my clean dry bed

I’d have you on yon grassy bank instead!

And I’ll ne’er get bloated on your love

For sure as the sky holds rain clouds above

You may be wet-the-bed to some

To me you are plainly ‘diuretic’ my sweet chum.


And when your time has come and gone

And your dying wish is to remain undisturbed

Then shall you display your elegant skeleton

And you will prepare seeds to form more medecine

From, to, and of, the Universe…..


And then I, one breath at a time,

(Not halting my rhyme)

Will move slow and long

In time with your song

Helping to spread your leonine spirit

So you can visually roar again

And I too will soar again

As to this end

Cupid’s fairy parachutes descend

Tiny seeds of your heart scatter

By my breath, weed: You matter!


One o’clock ….(reader blows out)

Two o’clock …(reader blows out)

Three o’clock…(reader blows out)



Dandyseed painting


Dandelion seeds 2





The Kindness of Dave



Dave kept inviting me.

What made him think I can afford

To  lodge abroad

For longer than a weekend?


Dave said I’d love it

I wanted to shove it

To the back of my mind.

It didnt seem relevant

In my life

Anymore than an elephant

Would, just extra strife.



One night,

Succumbing to persuasion

I booked a flight

And arrived before night

In the heat sodden nation

And was driven for miles

To my cavernous destination

In Andalucia


No consideration was spared.

My host excelled his role.

We ate well we fared

On sardines and mackerel

Which became a natural

Meal, alongside olives

And and fresh figs

The three of us bonded

Nothing sordid, just rounded

And we felt like kids

With no responsibilities

In the life quietly pastoral,

Treated like royalty

By Dave our admirable

Friend, healer and host.


We were spoilt in the sun.

I had so much fun Dave: the most.



Cave at Andalucia




I cannot touch you

Your limey surface

Does disrupt me.

You are so rough to me

That I will speak gruff of thee.

My hands feel too dry

Just looking at you.

Your pores breathe into me

Sucking out my moisture.

Pretty at first,

And alluring,

Now I feel claustrophobic

Under your enduring