An Ode to my Uvula

You hang there in your slimy cave
Like a slippery pink stalactite
Sometimes your soft tissues
Inflate and swell and block my throat
Meaning I can’t drink
Or eat
Or breathe

I wish you would stop doing it
Aren’t you happy
Living in my mouth?
You pesky little ceiling grape


I’m an orange, as orange as can be,
You can squeeze me after dinner, then drink me during tea.
I’m a fruit, a drink, a colour aswell,
I seem to be so popular; I really go down well.
When I’m a fruit, you can eat me slice by slice,
I’m succulent and juicy; you’ll find me quite nice.
When I’m a colour, I’m dazzling and bright,
I come in different shades, dark medium and light.
When I’m a drink, I’m poured into a glass,
But if you don’t drink me, I’m sure to turn to gas.
Tennis players gulp me, after they’ve scored deuce,
Now I really must stop writing ‘cos I’m running low on juice!


The Orkney Islands

The Orkney Islands; mystic, bleak and bold,
Ancient lands from times of old,
Hidden away, like treasured gold.
In the frozen northern seas.

The birds perch high on broken cliffs,
A-watching stones and monoliths.
And sandstone hills entrenched in myth,
Are flecked with shrubs and trees.

A painful sun attempts to fly,
Rays burst through the greying sky,
Boats drift and glide on waves so high,
In search of lonely quays.

A mother waits inside her home,
A father sits beside his phone.
A farmer lives out his life alone,
And time no longer flees.

Hark! The wind doth blow!
It whips the sea and sand, it
Rips straight through the rock and land;
The elements here are in command.
In the frozen northern seas.

This poem is also available on Medium.