Remembering Ron

The world has lost one of a kind, a man who could not help but care.

Now hope, in time, that we will find the truth in songs he longed to share.

A minstrel with a gift for words, a poet generous and wise,

A prophet, who our feelings stirred. He saw the world through loving eyes.

Each song a warning or a sign, each note appealing to be heard

When wit and wisdom both combine, a rich legacy deserved.


For Ron Trueman Border, a unique folk singer.



There was an old lady from Ealing whose ideas were very revealing

She stayed up at night in order to write about everything she was feeling.

The pandemic made her so worried she felt it was time that she hurried

To finish her tale so she wouldn’t fail to ensure that her words were not buried.


Then and Now. Verse

Waking in the morning, sad, I find I have to fight

This creeping, grinding feeling that stays with me ’till night.

The way I strive to get a grip is make a little list

There must be something I can do to blow away the mist

Of disappointment and of dread that colours all my days,

That clouds my thinking, dampens hopes and leaves me with a haze

Of doubt and desperation that prevents me moving on

Some small successes would ensure that all my fears are gone.

But tick of time and tasks complete serve only to contrast

The sluggishness of present life with an eventful past.

When every morning I would wake eager to greet the day

And fill the time with purpose, balancing work and play

But now each step I take’s a pain, each thought a heavy load,

Each window looks on darkness – I cannot see the road

To happiness, achievement: I stagger blindly on

Awake, asleep and waiting for these sad times to be gone.



Wildlife in my garden.(verse)

Their house fell down, but near the gate, we have a feeding station

set up purely for the birds – a breakfast-time creation.

A ground feeder atop a bush, with many different sections

holds seeds and porridge, bread and nuts. Oh, what a great selection!

Alas. it’s not just feathered friends, woodpigeons, sparrows, gulls

who come to feed on all the treats, but such a bounty pulls

in Cyril Squirrel, eager eyed, who chases them away

and feasts on nuts, or buries them to find another day.


Earth Day verse

Why do we call you Mother Earth? What force was it that once gave birth

to everything that moves or grows, each sound, each action – no-one knows.

Do we deserve this wondrous sphere? Is it our task to tend and care

for fish that swim, the birds that fly, the trees that reach up to the sky?

Is this, our home, a great design or has it just evolved in time?

The earth is here for all to use and yet this planet we abuse.

We dig out coal and gold and tin, use oceans like a rubbish bin

cut down the trees, pollute the air and wonder why no life is there.

Oh, Mother Earth, your children stray – please let us find another way

to value all the gifts you give and teach us all the way to live.


Nursery Rhyme

Isn’t it a pity that Jack and Jill had to go up to the top of the hill?

If there’d been a lake or a river nearby, that would be somewhere better to try.

But a pump that stands high on the top of a mound is even more bother than a well in the ground

For that clumsy boy fell down on his noddle and tipped out the water – so Jill ( this is twaddle)

Used paper and vinegar to cure his sore head. She should have gone back for the water instead.


Napping – a verse

Oh, why don’t you grab me and give me a shake?

You know it’s still daytime – I should be awake

But eating a meal always sends me to sleep

The dishes can wait -I’ll just leave them to steep.

It’s having the news on that makes me drop off

Or maybe it’s sitting – the sofa’s quite soft.

My napping at lunchtime I think is all right

What annoys me the most is it happens at night

From nine o’clock onwards, when watching TV

Something I’ve selected, that I want to see,

Whatever the programme I sit down to watch

Be it funny, or gripping or even a match-

Before it’s completed my eyes start to close

And nothing can stop me – I’m having a doze.

The Bird Bath – verse

I’m sorry, little sparrows. You always make me laugh.

I love to watch your antics, splashing in the bath

But now we have to move it, as the grass has grown too high.

We must get out the mower ( It will go back, by and by)

Meanwhile, enjoy the peanuts and the seeds still hanging there,

Enough for all you sparrows and the blue tits, if you share

And if that pesky squirrel doesn’t hang there, upside down

And shake the large bird feeder ’till the seeds fall on the ground.

But then, I see the woodpigeons find that they have a meal

And blackbirds who, upon the ground, try seeds and apple peel,

And when the grass is short and neat, the mower put away

Please come back to the bird bath so that we can watch you play.


( written when I was too slow to get a photo)


Poetry Now

Fling words at the page until they cling,

no need to rhyme at the end of each line

poetry today is pointed, sharp.

Thoughts do not flow, they pounce, they flash

they light the moment and are gone-

play ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, like modern jazz, we seek the melody in vain-

verses no longer swing, instead dissected, clever

lines confound, while poems of the past

are remembered for ever.