The Ghost of Cockle Ridge
Posted: Sat Jan 24, 2015 10:23 pm
Hi all
This is part 1 of a 42 verse children's story that I penned some time ago
I would love your feedback. I am a newbie to ABPA
THE GHOST OF COCKLE RIDGE
THE BEGINNING
Deep in the shadows of Cockle Creek Hollows, down where the crackle weeds grow,
A fat little chap called Wallace Wombat met his neighbour, the Brick-a-brac Crow.
Now, friends they were, and as friends do, Wallace asked the crow to tea,
And Bric-a-brac, he tipped his cap, and accepted graciously.
So, there they sat, they had a chat, and sipped their Cockle brew
And with the passing of the time, the evening shadows grew,
The crow he sighed ‘My cup is dry, I really should be off
And you my friend, I do contend, its food you’re thinking of.’
But as Wallace was digging in the dirt, as wombats often do,
He felt a shifting in the soil - slight tremors – one… then two.
‘I say, old Bric-a-brac, dear pal, I fear something’s amiss.
Would you mind flying round a bit to see what’s causing this.’
With that the crow took to the air, to gain some better views,
He soon returned, he looked concerned, he had distressing news.
Some dragons made of iron, and some monsters made of tin,
Were lining up on Cockle Ridge, with the aim of digging in.
‘We must alert, if we’re to avert most certain doom and gloom
Our friends, both furred and feathered, and we must alert them soon.
Once work is started, and earth is parted, it will be far too late,
To ever repair the horrible scar these monsters will create.’
It was time, it seemed to rally all the Cockle Creek brigade,
To band together, one and all, to protect the homes they’d made.
So they called a Cockle meeting, pasting posters everywhere,
Telling all that Cockle Ridge would surely disappear.
The creatures chitter-chattered all the day and all the night,
‘Cause Cockle Creek Hollows faced a cotton-picking plight,
All the burrows, hills and furrows from stream to mountaintop,
Were destined for oblivion, unless someone made Man stop.
The word had spread from near to far, from far to somewhere further,
And what was once a frightful din became a fearful murmur,
And all those creatures who lived without, as well as those within,
Commenced their cockle pilgrimage to the Cockle Creatures Inn.
© Copyright Allan Cropper 2012
This is part 1 of a 42 verse children's story that I penned some time ago
I would love your feedback. I am a newbie to ABPA
THE GHOST OF COCKLE RIDGE
THE BEGINNING
Deep in the shadows of Cockle Creek Hollows, down where the crackle weeds grow,
A fat little chap called Wallace Wombat met his neighbour, the Brick-a-brac Crow.
Now, friends they were, and as friends do, Wallace asked the crow to tea,
And Bric-a-brac, he tipped his cap, and accepted graciously.
So, there they sat, they had a chat, and sipped their Cockle brew
And with the passing of the time, the evening shadows grew,
The crow he sighed ‘My cup is dry, I really should be off
And you my friend, I do contend, its food you’re thinking of.’
But as Wallace was digging in the dirt, as wombats often do,
He felt a shifting in the soil - slight tremors – one… then two.
‘I say, old Bric-a-brac, dear pal, I fear something’s amiss.
Would you mind flying round a bit to see what’s causing this.’
With that the crow took to the air, to gain some better views,
He soon returned, he looked concerned, he had distressing news.
Some dragons made of iron, and some monsters made of tin,
Were lining up on Cockle Ridge, with the aim of digging in.
‘We must alert, if we’re to avert most certain doom and gloom
Our friends, both furred and feathered, and we must alert them soon.
Once work is started, and earth is parted, it will be far too late,
To ever repair the horrible scar these monsters will create.’
It was time, it seemed to rally all the Cockle Creek brigade,
To band together, one and all, to protect the homes they’d made.
So they called a Cockle meeting, pasting posters everywhere,
Telling all that Cockle Ridge would surely disappear.
The creatures chitter-chattered all the day and all the night,
‘Cause Cockle Creek Hollows faced a cotton-picking plight,
All the burrows, hills and furrows from stream to mountaintop,
Were destined for oblivion, unless someone made Man stop.
The word had spread from near to far, from far to somewhere further,
And what was once a frightful din became a fearful murmur,
And all those creatures who lived without, as well as those within,
Commenced their cockle pilgrimage to the Cockle Creatures Inn.
© Copyright Allan Cropper 2012