Upholding the Law
©  Tom Riley


A lion sits at his live evening meal.
Content, chewing a haunch of antelope
Unsmiling, and totally indifferent.
The front of dinner shrieks in agony:
Its screams melting in a blue heedless sky.
Leo's upholding the unwritten Law.

In bracken shroud pounces the hungry stoat,
And rabbit vents his last shrill warning word.
Incisors sharp draw life from struggling meat.
Without expression the predator eats.
No condiments or menu frame the feast.
He is upholding the unwritten law.

Surprise stares from the sacrificial sheep;
Wondering why his life drips to the floor.
In agony the life force slowly fades.
Halal or Kosher butchers watch him bleed
To glorify a medieval god.
But they, uphold the priestly written law.

The rights of animals are championed
By thoughtless setting free a thousand Mink,
To murder and bring terror to the wild.
The champions are deaf to screams of pain
From crushing death their footfalls leave behind.
They think they are upholding written Law.

Young Beagles caged in antiseptic ease,
Without their smoking jackets, light a fag.
They're forced to breathe malignant nicotine
To help promote seductive ciggy packs.
White coated men take down technical notes.
They are allowed these tests by written law.

Rheum drips from Mrs. Rabbit's smarting eyes,
To test the aids to glamorous beauty.
She needs no fashionable lipstick aid
To set her Buck on fire, with stamping zeal
But men force her, to wear the carmine fraud.
Yet, they uphold the cruel written law

The brutes lion and stoat can be absolved.
They'll never know the shades of written rule.
Their law, unwritten, is the jungle law,
Purblind, and lacking in philosophy.
But Homo Sapiens, that thinking brute
Wields torture, with the shield of written law.



Tip-toe through the Tulips? 
©  Tom Riley


A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
I think that sentiment's a lot of rot.
You tread behind the mower engines roar
To find that mowing lawn's a frightful bore,
And after cutting grass through wind and rain
The blasted stuff just grows as long again.

While sniffing at a perfect scented rose
Be sure a bee will sting you on your nose.
You plant anemones and hollyhocks
And get a crop of sorrel, vetch and docks.
You dig all day from winter's pale dawn crack:
You're laid up for a week with aching back.

You plant your spuds in trenches nice and firm:
The crop you gather's full of wire worm.
The carrots you may gather bye and bye
Have all been visited by carrot fly.
You lay your cabbage plants out in the plot.
The pigeons come along and scoff the lot.

If cauliflowers survive the summer's drought,
Then shake a crowd of stripy insects out.
The runner beans, in their peculiar way
Are fruitful, when you're off on holiday
And when you're back from Timbuktu or Wales -
You boil them up - they're just like Gran's toe nails.

Now watch that shaded corner: like a bog.
You're bound to tread upon a slimy frog.
You take an evening walk as daylight fails.
Your steps are marked by squashy crunched up snails.
Just when you think that now you've got it beat
A fox's calling card will smear your feet.

You're stuck with it! I'll tell you what to do.
Cast off you're grimy gloves and rubber shoe.
Ring up the builder's man and have him bring
Some paving stones and sand for levelling.
While he proceeds the concrete pall to lay,
With glass of wine, softly tip-toe away



The Chuckle Cats
©  Tom Riley


Black Emperor of shrubbery and lawn,
King of garden shed and back-yard wall,
Ruling the nightly revels dusk till dawn,
Cat-en-dom obedient to his call.
And yet; he does not smile.

Winner of the Persian classic rosette,
Prize mother of a dozen kitty cats,
Pampered feline, member of the 'in' set,
Fed costly cat-fare, not old cellar rats
And yet; she does not smile.

Striped terror of the Wapping barge cat crowd,
Victor supreme in every alley fight,
Demon lover with manly weapon proud,
He brings the ladies singing in the night
And yet; he does not smile.

Tatty of tail and home to tick and flea,
Choosing his a-la-carte from rubbish bins,
Cares not a tupp'ny damn for you and me,
Scorning the world our moggie broadly grins,
Who's he? but wait awhile.

Here's a puss from Cheshire's salt green acres,
Rich tenor voice and whiskered beaming face,
A member of a band of merry makers,
Who nightly serenade the populace
And dance upon the tile.

There's Cheery Blacks from Birkenhead and Crewe,
There's Ginger Toms from Hoylake's windswept leas,
Hail! Saughall Massie's Tabby Tigers too,
All cats from County famous for it's 'Cheese'.
Say CHEESE! Try not to smile.



Tomorrow?  
©  Tom Riley


What will far tomorrow bring?
I contemplate the wall of impenetrable mist.
When my setting sun's edge the last horizon has kissed,
Will I hear the Angels sing?

Will I stand before the Seat?
And have my deeds and mis-deeds set forth upon a scroll,
Will He weigh my history, and send my quaking soul
Burning in eternal heat?

Or, if the favouring scales
Tip with my worthy acts to the sought for credit side:
From the glorious Presence my face need never hide,
Bringing joy that never fails?

When life's warm last bonds sever;
Will I join the Seraphim and Cherubim in song?
Praising His Holiness the whole heavenly day long,
Notes resounding forever?

What of comfortable chat?
With long lost friends will we exchange our bursting news,
Feel the soft cloak of companionship and, when she mews
Stroke an importuning cat?

These eternal pleasures now.
My conditioned mind must see as carroty reward,
The stick of hell a hung flaming Damoclesian sword.
Before this threat must I bow?

No, for my heaven is here.
For on the whole I learnt to love my fellow men,
Dealt with them in justice as they came within my ken,
Hopeful, with my conscience clear.

And a perfect wifely love
Has raised me as a giant among my kith and kin,
Paved an earthly Paradise for me to wanton in:
Graced in beauty as a dove.

Thinking on the future's mist.
With a quiet mind, I leave to Providence the end.
I thank the fates, for their kindly thoughtfulness to send
The warm Angel I have kissed.