THE ASH CLOUD

(with apologies to Thomas Oliphant, who wrote the words of ‘The Ash Grove’)

Down Iceland’s red valley flowed streamlets of lava,
while many in hired cars expensively drove
to get back to England. Oh, what a palaver –
a cloud far less dark than a lonely ash grove!
Far off, stranded tourists stopped cheerfully singing
when faced with hotel bills in Paris or Rome.
For days Lord Adonis, his dainty hands wringing,
had come up with nothing to help us get home.

A hush had descended o’er valley and mountain,
which favoured the blackbird’s sweet note from the tree.
Some relished the music of streamlet and fountain,
but what were the beauties of nature to me?
I’d got stuck in Calais. The ferries were laden.
I longed for a morning when flights were allowed.
The navy, tho’ promised, came not to our aid, ’n’
I slept on the quayside, damned by the ash cloud.

John Barclay

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