The Scouts and the Witches.

Unlikely cohabitants,
We Scouts and the witches.
Yet we are both tribes.
Our uniform and coded language attest.
While they make merry with mead.
We have red and white wine at our formal dinner.
They, their athanes, garlands and flowing gowns,
We have scarves and woggles.
They will dance around the Maypole,
(Perhaps skyclad.)
Our eyes up-cast salute the flagpole.
They welcome the coming of Spring,
We await Jamboree.
What make they of our raucous BRAVOs.
We are definitely apprehensive about their 'Great Rite',
As we retire to our segregated bunk rooms.
Blessed be!

Scarf Day

Not just,
For St David and the nag,

It is August first,

The day to recognise,

The Scouting movement.

So don your scarf proudly.

Bound with a friendship knot,

Wood beads or a woggle,

And embrace with fraternity,

The international family.

Of Scouts.

BRAVO!

Homo-sapien (gilwellius)

We are a strange breed,
Homo-sapien (gilwellius)
Common name:
The Scout Leader.
Our habitat is the great outdoors,
In the bush,
On the snowy slopes,
Abseiling off a cliff,
Hiking up a mountain.
Or at gatherings,
Where strange rituals are performed:
saluting,
Left handed, hand-shakes,
And the B R A V O!
We are also to be seen congregating,
Around campfires.
We each have our own special uniforms,
And Multi-badged blankets.
We like to accessorize these items,
With our own identifying personal embellishments.
We are only distinguished from our young;
The Joeys, Cubs, Scouts, Venturers and
Rovers,
By our relative size and colour of our plumage.
We are a rare breed.
But well worth examining,
On an anthropological level.

Sleeping Cold

Two nights I have been sleeping cold.
Well,
One night really.
The other I didn't,
Sleep that is.
I was too cold,
To sleep.
Minus ten sleeping bag,
Thermarest on stretcher,
Tent on tarp,
Everything sealed up,
Wearing thermals,
Trackies,
Socks,
Three layers of shirt,
Plus a polar-fleece jumper,
Woolen beanie.
Second night,
Even resorted to a hot brick from the campfire,
Wrapped in newspaper.
Still cold.
All the bits not near the brick.
Until eventually the brick too,
Cooled.


.

Sleeping on a Mountain Top

The climb was hard,
Leg numbing, chest burning, hard.
And all the more dangerous,
For being executed in moonlight.
Although like midnight, the top would inevitably arrive,
It was a most longed for object.
The promise of rest was all that guaranteed progress.
The stops became more frequent and the rocky inclines
More treacherous and steep.
At last it was achieved,
And among the rocks, on uneven ground,
The tent was erected.
Sweat soaked body became chilled,
And gratefully accepted the warmth of the sleeping bag.
Despite the chill and the rocky bedfellows,
Sleep was as unpolluted as the fresh crystal air of the clear night.
Unmolested by any discordant cacophony of thoughts.
Perhaps being physically closer to heaven,
Sets the mind above the incessant buzz. 

Summer Camp

Away from home all week,
Camping with three hundred Scouts.
In our fragile shelters,
At the whim of weather,
All that nature can toss;
Heat, humidity and sudden storms.
3, 6, 9, 12, bang, rumble, rumble.
 "Hathi!
Did you know that you can tell how far away the lightning is,
By counting in threes?"
Tiny flies in eyes and ants in pants.
And in tents too.
"They're in my tiny teddies and all through the tent."
Biting sun rays,
Grilling flesh.
" No scout leaves this site without a collared shirt, full brimmed hat sunscreen and water bottle.
Well you had better put on your scarf then."
Mozzies.
'Stop Itch.'
Hard ground, poor sleep,
Bags under eyes.
Unique scouts
And leaders.
Insecurities and quirks.
Gentleness, patience and generosity.
Tricks, jokes and game of Mao.
Different lives.
Different needs,
Coming together.
Shared language;
PLs, APLs
BRAVO!
Badges and cords.
"I lost the game!"



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