Activities of Geoff Skellon

I must remember to tell mother that I found out
How Rupert Brooke died. We heard his poetry on the
Radio as we passed through Albuquerque, just
Two poems before we stopped to get gas and corn
...

If I should die
[as sure I must]
think only this of me-
not that I've gone to Heaven or to Hell
...

Slain by the arrows of Apollo, lo,
The well-belovèd of the Muses lies
On Lemnos' Isle 'neath blue and classic skies,
And hears th' Ægean waters ebb and flow!
...

I saw you in the swimming pool
And recognised you straight away,
Despite the fact that you've grown fat
And your hair is going grey.
...

'And this is Queen Victoria' said the guide
'As you can see she's not amused'.
He laughed and moved on.
A gawp of tourists trailed behind.
...

If you give your children just two things, let one be roots and the other be wings.

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.
...

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.
...