Pantomime comes late in our parish. We have just finished performing Aladdin, in which, of course, Aladdin and the genies rescued the world from financial crisis.

Like all the classic fairytales, Aladdin's story contains archetypes, such as the Wicked Uncle. Here is my ALADDIN sonnet. Look in the DOWNLOADS for more fairytale wisdom.

ALADDIN

Like Aladdin, roaming through caves of treasure,
Caverns studded with jewels, glittering with gems,
Reeling at riches, marvelling at wealth past measure,
Forgetting the wicked uncle and his stratagems,

We too explore riches beyond our dreams,
Treasure piled high, tottering, spilling over,
Wading through wealth. Diamonds and rubies in streams
Flash round our feet, gifts from the Almighty lover.

At our back, no wicked, wheedling uncle
Threatens to strip us of youth’s wealth and power.
A loving gaze, a steadying hand, the twinkle
Of doting eyes, lingering in this paradise bower

Tell us: This is you. Yourself is the treasure you find,
Grown into riches, loved harvest of heart and mind.

Why is cholera happening in the twenty-first century?

Cholera slithered into God's presence. The other advisers stepped out of its way, shuddering.

"Are you still looking for a plan?" hissed Cholera. "Are you desperate yet? Are you ready to send me?" Smirking, he folded his arms and sat down in one of the comfortable red armchairs, coiling his tail under it. The others looked at his grey skin and feeble body.

"I'm doing my best," said Famine, "but they're used to me. I've been trying for too long."

"They're even used - to me," Confusion managed to say, with several voices issuing from various of her nodding heads.

Cholera looked at Famine scornfully. "There's nothing you can do to the rich," he crowed. "They hardly notice you! And even you," Cholera glared at Confusion, "Why, you just help them grow richer. They love you." Cholera lolled back, cocking one skinny knee over the other.

"You need something that affects everyone," he lectured: "Something that frightens them so much, they forget everything but trying to look after each other." Cholera looked cheekily at God. "It might work," he insisted. "No harm in letting me try. Human beings might yet surprise us all. They'd better, or planet earth will soon be empty."

"What's your choice?" he asked. "As I see it, it's got to be me or Plague. You've tried everything else. I think I'm the one, low-key, old-fashioned, go everywhere, get everyone, that's me. Plague is too easily quarantined, but wherever water can go, I can go."

So Cholera struck Zimbabwe, and its neighbours, rich and poor, oppressor and oppressed, city and countryside. The world watched and wept, and wished it had anything to spare from its commitments, its noble-hearted, failing commitments, in the rest of the world. Dying Africans helped or cursed each other. The virtuous became even more heroically unselfish and devoted, until they died, while the wicked became even more cruel and selfish, until they died likewise.

When the whole of sub-Saharan Africa was empty . . .

This is the mother of the two kittens below, plus a pretty tabby, and an amazing white and black kitten, with tabby ears and tale!

MOTHERHOOD

A timid tabby haunts the empty plot,
Shadow among the shadows, grey in the gloom.
The leaves hang still and chill where she is not.
Soft swish behind her shows where they made room.

Between the twilit twigs her dappled shape
Flits like a ghost, unheard, on silent paws,
Or fades along the alleys; soft escape
Matching the dimness, noiseless past the doors.

Yet, now, her half-grown kittens are shown with pride,
Installed near the railings. Passers-by can dote.
Close, in the bushes, tabby can safely hide,
Frantic, but fond, enjoy the praise, and gloat.

The opening gate brings terror to the plot.
The guardian mother towers like a ghost in the gloom;
Tigress with blazing eyes: Ah! Touch ye not!
Approach not this bristling vengeance; grey, spitting doom!

Desperate courage flares in the timid eyes.
Centuries of feline power rage in that glance.
Who can brave this gaze that petrifies?
In mid-step, frozen, the admirer halts his advance.

The intruder gone, a timid, nervous shape
Flits back to the bushes, dissolves, where shadows gape.

These two wonderful kittens were called Domino and Magic.

KITTEN LOVE

Tumbling kittens, black and white,
Tails and paws in a whirling ball.
Threaten! Stand off! Take to flight!
Ricochet round the cluttered hall.

Nature practises teeth and claws:
Lunge and parry; Square for a fight;
Empty biting with silent jaws;
Pat and push and butt out of sight.

Testing each other, scares and scuffles;
Wary and watchful; giddy fright;
Silent stalking; carpet muffles
Even mistakes, as they thud from height.

Wrestling playfully, cuffs and cuddles;
Warm and brotherly, no real spite;
Glimpses of tigerhood peep through the muddles:
Strength and ferocity, skill and might.

Fondling, finding strengths and weaknesses;
Clutching and clawing, clasping tight.
"Aren't they sweet," murmur doting witnesses,
Charmed by the bonding, brotherly sight.

Patting and playful, lying together
Head to tail, they fit just right;
Tail curled softly round each brother;
Relaxation, trusting quite.

Sleeping kittens, black and white,
Curled round each other, like day and night.

Like Kipling's 'Just So Stories', but briefly, this poem asks Why? two of our favourite African animals evolved as they did. The poem also aims to evoke magical misty landscapes, and be satisfyingly 'poetic'.

REACHING

Dawn lies golden over the grassland.
Out-stretched shadows welcome the days.
Massed in the mist of the waking land,
Animals float in the pearly haze.

Like islands, wreathed in wispy silver,
Clumps of trees reach for the sky.
Roots drink deep while water’s still there.
Juicy foliage tempts on high.

Graceful giraffe and hefty elephant
Shared one problem: how to reach;
Find solutions, clumsy or elegant;
High and wide, grasp food for each.

Across the swaying, sunlit grassland,
Giraffes in patchwork, camouflage stains;
Browsing, gossiping, there they stand,
Necks erect like working cranes.

Elephant grunts as it humps and heaves,
Lumbering grey like a walking boulder;
Coiling trunk among the leaves;
Throwing the remnants over his shoulder.

Green retreats from the dry savannah.
Rains are over. Brown returns.
Herds move on, in the age-old manner.
Hot air dances. Empty noon-day burns.

Trees still proffer their deep-drunk greenness.
Animals browse in the welcome shade,
Following slowly. Waters may stream less
But nature’s stratagems are still well-laid.

Trunks and necks among the branches
Extend the reach of nature’s chances.

Here is a new story from the ALL CREATURES FESTIVAL. If you want to remember what raccoons are like, watch them on Utube.

NEW OFFICE STAFF

Cicero the secretary bird had run the festival office for as long as anyone could remember. His black and white feathers looked neat and tidy, and very efficient. Computers were a doddle to him, tapping away with all his claws and his beak. "Black and white," was his slogan, "get it down in black and white."

Now that the All Creatures festival was growing bigger every year, Cicero persuaded the management to advertise for more staff. They were thrilled with the list of applicants: parrots, cockatoos, finches. "Some new friends for you, Cicero," said the management team: "a bit of colour and life in the office." Cicero glared at them. "Colour!" he grumbled: "what's wrong with smart black and white. You'll pay extra for colour."

Interview day arrived, and several birds arrived for interviews, all smartly combed and carrying their cvs. The parrots talked well enough, but didn't listen to the questions so didn't give sensible answers. They kept forgetting what they had said, and saying the same things over and over again. "Have a nice day, have a nice day. Has that kettle boiled? Make the tea, make the tea." Management were glad when the parrots' turn was over.

In the outer office, the cockatoo had darkened the computer screen so that he could talk to his reflection, chattering and bowing and pecking the screen. It was obvious he would never do any work, so the interviewers wasted no time, and the cockatoo was quickly on his way home.

The two finches did their best, but they were too small to reach all the keyboard without fluttering around all the time. Papers got blown onto the floor or across the wrong piles. Cicero was beside himself with worry at the confusion. Management tactfully told the finches they might find them a more specialist role, working with tickets.

At last they all took a break outside, to stretch their shoulders and get some fresh air. The bin was full of black and white fur. "Hey, Cicero," they asked, "has someone dumped a fur coat?" The fur shook itself and a black nose poked out, followed by two bright eyes. "Can't a fellow get some sleep?" asked the voice. The eyes closed and the nose snuggled back into the fur.

But Cicero had noticed the colour-scheme: black and white, the practical colour-scheme everyone can trust. The management team went back inside for cups of tea, discussing what to do next. Should they advertise again?

Cicero stood beside the bin. After a while, one eye opened among the fur. "Hello," said Cicero, "Have you been here before?" Without waiting for an answer he produced two biscuits, held one out to the bundle of fur, and started to nibble the other. A black and white furry hand emerged from the heap and reached for the biscuit. Cicero stepped further away. "Come on out," he said, "and let's meet properly." The furry bundle jumped out of the bin and pattered across to Cicero. "Stand and deliver," it demanded, posing like a highwayman, arm outstretched. Cicero smiled at the comical face, striped with black fur like a burglar's mask, - a raccoon!

"How long have you been in our bin?" asked Cicero, handing over the biscuit. The raccoon shuffled its feet. "Nothing wrong with your bin," it said, "Lovely place to live."

"Come on; the truth now," insisted Cicero. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" The raccoon hung its head: "My name's Ringo," he said. "My dad put my computer in the skip because he said I was wasting all my time playing games. The skip was too high to jump into, and anyway, it got taken away before I could prevent it; so I thought, 'I bet there are other computers out there, dumped in skips and bins,' so I left home and I've been looking ever since." Ringo looked wistfully at the office window. "I stayed here all week," it said. "You all seem so friendly." Cicero guessed how lonely it was feeling. "Come on in," he said; "Cup of tea, and we'll give you a test on the computer."

Ringo was brilliant on the computer. Cicero hoped he had found the assistant he needed. "Black and white," he thought, "but am I sure I can trust it?" Out loud he said: "Congratulations: you got top marks in every skills test." He gave Ringo an apple. The raccoon munched hungrily. "Now you must go home to tell your parents you are all right. I bet they are worried. I will ring them up to check you are who you say you are, and if everything is alright, you can start work next week."

Ringo's parents had been desperate for news. They were thrilled to see him, and to learn he was getting a job in IT. Ringo was back at the festival office ten days later, with his black and white fur all combed and tidy, ready to start work.

MESSAGE: Stick to your standards, and trust your instincts.

KANGAROOS

What is the answer for a semi-arid wilderness –
Not desert! Not simple desert!
Brushwood and waterholes, scattered in the emptiness:
Reach it? How can we reach it?

A tempting train of sustenance to criss-cross the wilderness:
Islands! Like islands in the dry!
With green on the horizon, gasp across the emptiness;
But distance! A quadruped can’t fly!

And so the quadruped became a cinqÜeped,
And of that cinq, uses only three:
Boing! across the empty miles; Boing! till supper; Boing! till bed;
Spacehopper laps the emptiness; spacehopper, hopping free.

Tail, like a spring, maintains the bouncing impetus;
Back legs keep the rhythm, on and on:
Old Man Kangaroo, king of the spaced-out wilderness;
Friendly family groups, seen and gone.

What about youngsters in the semi-arid wilderness?
Short legs slow you down, die of thirst!
Hoist them in your pocket as you bounce across the emptiness.
Put them down, when you’ve covered the worst.

No dramatic patterns in the dusty, gritty wilderness:
Sandy fawn or khaki, camouflage!
Space-hoppers and their hitch-hikers fade into the emptiness.
Boing! With tails and pockets, we’re in charge!

SNAKES

Slither: does it say everything?
Encapsulate the snake experience?
Conjure up a slippery way of life?
Muscular smoothness: glide and cling,
Wind and twist, or weave a waving dance,
Or vanish through the leafmould like a knife.

In speed and silence: Gone!
And leaves a gap – but no gap! – Was it there?
Still as a photograph. No movement! None!
The eery glide vanished in thin air.

But when the chill slows the lonely slither:
Clinging closeness of the hibernating heap
In sibling comfort. Above, the leaves wither;
Contented tangle of the winter sleep.

THE CATERPILLAR

"Bottom of the food-chain! What do you mean?"
Complaint comes crawling out of the green.
Truly invisible, unseen in the scenery,
Juicy gobbler round juicy greenery.
"If we were the bottom, we'd have nothing to eat.
Leaves forever! Just use your feet!"
Apple or oaktree, rowan or beech,
Thousands of gobblers lunching on each.
Spring-green or silver, tooth-edged or plain,
Each has its specialist: Munch! Sun or rain.
Mouth purpose-built for endless consumption
"What else is a face for? Use your gumption!
More muscles than you, as I twizzle and loop:
Two hundred, controlling each stretch and stoop.
Of course I've a brain! With all this to keep sorted:
Feet, hook-feet and cushions, all segments co-ordinated.
We're proud of our place! Foundation position;
Unheard, unnoticed; vegetation animation!"