Peter Wyton

Goose Guides and Swimming Teachers

Here is a little problem for you to solve.
Imagine you are a surrogate parent to twelve Barnacle Geese.
You wish to ensure that they navigate safely
across four hundred miles of French countryside,
without being blasted to smithereens
by indiscriminate hunters and mercenary poachers.

Solution
( if you are Christian Moullec, conservationist ):
migrate in a microlite, with your responsibilities
flying in formation around you at an altitude of fifty metres,
for a total of eight days, over such outlandish terrain
as the craters of dead volcanoes in the Auvergne,
to sanctuary in their winter quarters in Brittany.

Here is another little problem for you to solve.
You are a headmaster in Kwa-Zulu Natal, in possession
of exam-papers essential to the School Leaving Certificates
of your pupils, from whom you are separated
by jungle and tropical downpour which have frustrated
four-wheel-drive vehicles, grounded helicopters.

Solution
( if you are Madlakayise Hlatshwayo ):
jump in your little car. Drive until it bogs down.
Continue on foot to the swollen Umqueku River.
Tie the exam papers to your head. Swim the torrent
fully clothed. Tramp fifteen more muddy miles to your school.
Give the children their papers. Tell them to start writing.

Here is a final problem for you to solve. You are a parent
in Cool Britannia. How do you persuade your offspring
to abandon, as role models, petulant soccer players,
superstars with heroin chic, pop singers
with attitude problems — and replace them by such as
Christian Moullec and Mandlakayise Hlatshwayo.

Solution?

Leap of Faith

Oliver of Malmesbury, 11th century monk, leapt from the roof of his abbey wearing home-made wings — and broke both his legs.

You’ll have prayed on the parapet,
I dare say, committed your soul
To the keeping of the Almighty,
Then tensed, taking inspiration,
Perhaps, from a swooping crow,
Before passing that point at which
A modern co-pilot says, “Decision.“
And his captain replies, “Rotate.”

What of the journey, such as it was,
Mad monk, or aviation pioneer,
Whichever you prefer? En route
To agony, no supplication
Short enough comes easily to mind.
Given the fact you had the balls
To go out on a pennate limb
In the first place, I like to think
You hollered something monosyllabic,
In Anglo-Saxon.

A Song of Autumn

They played, as good musicians should,
wherever they could find an audience.
‘A’ Deck, initially, the First Class Lounge.
Later, Grand Staircase, on the Boat Deck Level.
Lastly, the stricken liner’s canting deck,
as lifeboat after lifeboat crawled like beetles
across stark Atlantic swell. Applaud
a literally gallant band, not one of whom
survived to turn this unique booking
to career advantage. Their choice of music
still provokes conjecture, decades on.
‘Nearer My God To Thee’, the headlines screamed,
much more concerned with sales than common sense.
These troupers plied their trade to boost morale,
not reconcile their audience to a watery grave.
Rational survivors spoke of lively tunes,
contemporary hits from London and New York,
like ‘In The Shadows’, ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’
and ‘Songe d’Automne’, most plausible contender
    for the dubious accolade of
what the band was playing when the ship went down.