“Spider Music” by Celia Berrell

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Do not touch.  Just look with eyes
devoid of fear to fantasise.
The female spider poised in web
begins to move her slender legs.
And gracefully she plays her song
like fingered harp-strings.  Fragile, long.
With four front limbs she picks her tune.
Preferred selection Claire De Lune.
Accomplished legs instead of hands
can gently pluck those chosen strands.
Locating ones that soon vibrate
the presence of a tasty bait.
The silent fly snared by her threads
has changed the notes mad by her web.
With little sight she finds her catch
with musical prowess to match.

“Barnyard Dance” by Toni Newell

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The animals were getting ready,
For this was their last chance,
To make themselves beautiful,
For the barnyard dance.
There she was, Molly, the sow,
Dressed up to the nines,
Accompanied by Billy, the goat,
Whose appearance was refined.
They wandered in, two by two,
And mingled with each other,
And then approached the dance floor,
Where they heard the drummer.
The donkey played the drums,
Whilst the cow took to the fiddle,
The rooster stood and ‘crowed’ his song,
Whilst the rest danced in the middle.
The Border Collie began to ‘howl’,
And soon the ducks ‘quacked’ in,
The others joined into the throng,
Which created quite a din.
They sang and danced together,
Until the break of dawn,
Then, off to bed they wandered,
To be there for the morn.

“Molly Moo” by Toni Newell


On the top of Wanton Hill,

Surrounded by the herd,

Stood Molly Moo the calf,

Appearing quite absurd.

She had brambles on her head,

And burrs on her tail,

And if not mistaken,

She was looking rather pale.

Molly sought her mother,

To get her help, attention,

Mother looked and laughed,

At poor Molly’s situation.

She removed the burrs slowly,

Causing little pain,

Then removed the brambles,

Molly Moo free once again.

“Brave Bombardiers”  by Celia Berrell 

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Don’t mess
with those bombardier beetles
gathered in groups
in a world of woods.
This warning’s for ants,
frogs and people:
This chamber of secrets?
A chemistry lab,
cooking up bombs
in their abdomen.
Steaming-hot acid,
fired out in zaps.
Toxic and boiling,
again and again.
They’ll twist round their torsos
well enough
to aim at whatever
caused them to huff.
But their tail-end skin
must be really tough …
or their rears would be hurting
when squirting that stuff!
Bombadier Beetle