#3 Picnic in the Park

It's pretty crazy after dark

to picnic up in Peckham Park

with moonlight on the heron's lake

and in the hamper chips and steak,

a small goose, pigeon, duck and quail,

Prosecco, Supermalt and ale.

It really does seem quite absurd

to urge us not to feed the birds

since no one ever makes a fuss

when the birds are feeding us.

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#4: IMAGINE PECKHAM RYE

I've never been to Peckham, but

I see the Common with a hut,

a workman, brazier and mutt,

with distant grazing sheep, some deer,

and cattle bringing up the rear,

wandering home as nighttime falls

to find kind milkmaids in their stalls.

Peckham must be a pleasant place

of parks and streets of studied grace,

of dainty cakes and Earl Grey tea

where people dress im-peckham-bly.

And yet however hard I try

I can’t imagine Peckham Rye.

What is a ‘rye’, for goodness’ sake?

A rill, a bec, a tarn, a lake?

A kind of smile, a type of grain?

A highway, avenue? A lane?

Before these thoughts are brought to book

I’d better go and take a look.

It’s funny, but it’s often true

how names can shape a point of view,

a vision of a street or park

that is completely off the mark.

(I once imagined Samarkand

as a beach resort with golden sand.)

A few syllables can suggest to us

a quite contrary universe.

And if the imagination flies,

the truth may come as a surprise.

So the Peckham caught in my mind’s eye,

may well turn out to be a-Rye.

(see the video)

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If Poppy Piper plucked a prickly pear in Peckham,

where's the prickly pear that Poppy Piper plucked?

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#5: No Brainer

As I was walking down Lordship Lane

I met a man without a brain.

"No one is happier than me,"

he said, "whomsoever I may be.

And happiness, I think you'll find,

is never having to make up your mind."

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#6: Shark in the park

Going up to Peckham Park

I met a man who said a shark

Had eaten all the children there

And though mums and dads were in despair

He himself really could not care

About any baby Harry, Dick or Tom

As there were plenty more where they came from.

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#7: Going, going...

The mist moves in on Peckham Rye

And folk are fading fast

Buses lose their upper decks

Foxes, unseen, are trotting past.

First my feet go, then legs and knees

Buildings, traffic, bushes, trees.

I know if I don’t put up a fight

that I will disappear tonight.