• Café Life is the Colony's main hangout, watering hole and meeting point.

    This is a place where you'll meet and make writing friends, and indulge in stratospherically-elevated wit or barometrically low humour.

    Some Colonists pop in religiously every day before or after work. Others we see here less regularly, but all are equally welcome. Two important grounds rules…

    • Don't give offence
    • Don't take offence

    We now allow political discussion, but strongly suggest it takes place in the Steam Room, which is a private sub-forum within Café Life. It’s only accessible to Full Members.

    You can dismiss this notice by clicking the "x" box

Poetry THIS ISN'T PROSE, SO HERE IT GOES

The World Between the Words
A heron went for next door's cat,
Jehovah's Finest came for a chat,
Slug trails glistened on the welcome mat,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The pebble-dashing shed its stones,
The fat hen weeds were skin and bones,
The crows all fought like Game of Thrones,
The day our garden got a mard on.

Sun-bleached seedlings in the potting shed,
Wilting in the Pak choi bed,
Our cherry tomatoes bypassed red,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The polytunnel cooked our veg,
Dead flies lined the window ledge,
Raging wasps took over the hedge,
The day our garden got a mard on.

Panting sheep blocked country roads,
The lettuce beds were full of toads,
The septic tank just overflowed,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The Badgers dug up bumblebees,
Pigeons dropped dead from the trees,
Even the squirrels all caught fleas,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The strawberry runners ran, and ran
Skin hot and sore – not worth the tan,
Another bloody hosepipe ban,
The day our garden got a mard on.
 
A heron went for next door's cat,
Jehovah's Finest came for a chat,
Slug trails glistened on the welcome mat,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The pebble-dashing shed its stones,
The fat hen weeds were skin and bones,
The crows all fought like Game of Thrones,
The day our garden got a mard on.

Sun-bleached seedlings in the potting shed,
Wilting in the Pak choi bed,
Our cherry tomatoes bypassed red,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The polytunnel cooked our veg,
Dead flies lined the window ledge,
Raging wasps took over the hedge,
The day our garden got a mard on.

Panting sheep blocked country roads,
The lettuce beds were full of toads,
The septic tank just overflowed,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The Badgers dug up bumblebees,
Pigeons dropped dead from the trees,
Even the squirrels all caught fleas,
The day our garden got a mard on.

The strawberry runners ran, and ran
Skin hot and sore – not worth the tan,
Another bloody hosepipe ban,
The day our garden got a mard on.
Yes, like a curmudgeon's vision of life.
 
Back
Top