The Legend of Bushy Tom ( Part 1 ) Intro..... Up higher Ince I saw the ghost, Of a bygone hero loved by most, Who dived into the cut and then, Never came back up again. On Rabbit Rocks he gave a sigh, And nodded as he passed me by, Then just as quick as he was there, He vanished in the morning air. So now compelled I will relate, The story of this poor man`s fate, Then let you ponder on the plot, And quibble if it`s true or not. It is a bleak and chilling yarn, Of pride and glory come to harm, Of men who drank when ale was strong, And sometimes how they got it wrong. How in a moment, precious life, Can slip like butter from a knife, And how one fluke, mad circumstance, To one gave not a second chance. But all fond hearts and those who care, This tragedy we all can share, And proof of this man`s swift demise, Was witnessed by my very eyes. So bear with me a little while, And with a nod, a wink and smile, In rhyming lines I`ll tell the tale, Of a man who lived and died for ale. The Legend of Bushy Tom ( Part ! ) Down by the old canal where cushion grasses grew, Many a summer`s crowd of heated brow the cooling waters drew Upon those beachy banks where clover sands were laid, Beneath the skylark`s rising shrill the village clamour swayed. In silent pose upon the bridge a sturdy figure leaned, Above him blazed the midday sun, below the water gleamed. All fifteen pints on tiptoe stood old Bushy Tom the diver - Many a daring leap had he defied and taken home a fiver. That afternoon upon the banks the children watched with awe, And people gathered round the spot where Tom chewed on his straw. With bathing cap upon his head and hairy chest inflated, Every eye among the crowd upon him concentrated With fifteen pints of best Bush ale this man was such a dare, He spat his straw, drew a breath and rose into the air. Fifteen stones of a dolphin plunge from fingertips to toes, He hit the surface like a blade and up the water rose. And when he struck the tranquil pool, a gradely splash was made, Some twenty feet the fountain sprang and o`er the capstan sprayed. Old Wilf Jones was soaking wet, his smouldering pipe was quenched. From polished boots to white cravat, his Sunday best was drenched. But such a splendid dive it was that many were amazed - Folk sat clapping in the grass and much applause was raised, And even when the bubbles burst where Tom had disappeared, Bending heads looked smiling down while others simply cheered. A minute passed, the water calmed then interest slowly mounted, And every minute after that, with grave concern were counted. Tom was good at holding breath as well as supping beer, But such a spell beneath the deep indeed gave rise to fear. Now while the Skylark sang above, the dreadful silence grew - Where might be our Bushy Tom ? it`s certain no one knew. He was so fond of playing tricks and many a time surprised, And fooled the folk by coming up far from where he dived. Now while the Skylark sang above, the summer sun sat burning, And many tongues denied the hope that Tom might be returning. Fetch the Locky , someone cried as fear began to spread, So young John Smith lept on his bike and down the bank he sped. Summertime for Locky Joe was such a busy season, And hard was he to action call without a stirring reason, But Bushy Tom so well he knew - a friend of his Aunty Nellie`s, That when he heard the tragic news he soon put on his wellies. A speedy man was Locky Joe - a miler he had been - No sooner had he left his hut he arrived upon the scene. The situation called for tact - experience gave him plenty. With rapid turns he wound his key and the lock began to empty. Inch by inch the water drained - the crowd began to wonder, Attention focussed on the spot suspect to the blunder. Vacant gaping from the bridge on elbows propt supported, And fingers pointed to the wall where Bushy Tom`s straw floated. Meanwhile, across those ferny fields where lawns rose tall and plush, Anxious whispers spread around and murours filled the Bush. Along that stoney road where dust lay dry as salt, An urgent treck of local lads came trailing from the vault. Up by Daisy pond where ducks sailed on the shallow, Farmer Hesketh left his plough and trudged across the fallow. Bill the bargeman too was strolling by and near the fence had stopped, And while he pondered, scratched his head, the murky level dropped. Now while the skylark sang above she sang a song of woe, Another foot the water fell - the parish clock struck four. Half the lock had drained away and eager eyes were peeled, Still not a trace of Bushy Tom the fateful spot did yield. At ten past four the solemn truth so painful to disclose, Protruded through the gleaming sheen - a pair of quivering toes. Old Bushy Tom that devil dare, no pride now to defend, Saluted to the sky above and faced his muddy end. Kevin Holcroft..............(.To be continued )
Posted on: Sun, 23 Mar 2014 04:29:47 +0000
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