ISLE OF

COMPETITION

Sandman's song

Jaspistos

By which I could have meant either a song which makes one drowsy or one which contains advice on how to get to sleep. A good soporific anthology was Edith Sit- well's Planet and Glow-worm, designed for the restless, which I used to take to bed as an adolescent. It contained two detached lines from the Elizabethan poet George Peele which always gave me a sleepy fris- son:

God in the whizzing of a pleasant wind Shall march upon the tops of mulberry trees.

At the time they seemed marvellous non- sense; since then I have been disappointed to learn that they refer to some obscure verses in the Old Testament. Counting sheep is no good: they quickly turn into bulls or giraffes and the fence or gate gets trampled down. Trying to list the counties of the Republic of Ireland is better, but Offaly is the devil of a place to remember. A friend swears by beginning with a bonus tenner on Monday and imagining how you would spend it, then doubling and redou- bling for an imagined fortnight until you and your greed are exhausted.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky is Francis Mullen's.

Beyond the lawn fawns slip from shade to shade, Mild 'eyed and timorous, so light their tread They scarcely bruise the grasses. In the glade Doves amorously moan. The brooklet, fed By mazy rivulets, meanders slow Among marsh marigolds. Long tendrils sway, Stirred by the eddies. In the sunset glow The leaves gleam softly, and small creatures play Their gauzy, aerial games. A distant bell Summons a faithful few to evensong. A monk, enraptured, murmurs in his cell. Interlaced lovers kiss their way along A leafy lane. Now here and there a star Glows in the firmament. The day's cares seep Insensibly away, and from afar Waves on quiet beaches breaking mumur, `Sleep!' (Francis Mullen) Close your eyes and picture a screen: A fading dot, the rest is bare, An afterglow where the dot has been, Then perfect black — and you are there.

No good? Well, let's go back to the screen Where two hands fondle and shape a pot From dull wet clay: in the final scene The pot is there — but you are not.

Still hopeless? Don't give up on that screen: A Cabinet Minister talks like a sheep, An orchestra's playing 'God Save the Queen' It's bland, it's nonsense, it sends you to sleep....

Not quite but almost? Stay with the screen: An orchestra's led by a sheep in a pot, A Minister's afterglow fondles the Queen - Sleepy and glorious, dot dot dot....

(Andrew Gibbons) The bees are murmuring in the mulberry beds. The humming birds are hovering by the elm. The labradors, lawn-weary, loll their heads; They linger in a dim, dream-laden realm.

Deep in the dewy woodlands, dappled deer Pad gingerly, or drink from weed-ringed ponds. They dart away when human feet draw near, To peer at danger, shaded by fresh fronds.

The ocean rushes on the shingle shore. It susurrates and sighs like grief itself. Small shellfish skulk concealed, while albacore Swim safe in schools beyond the tidal shelf.

The flaccid clocks of Dali tell the time: It flows past softly, effortful and slow, Like infinite fatigue, like mummer's mime, Like the light thud of ever-falling snow.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Start to count, begin at one And add one to it: when that's done, You add another, making three, And then an extra one, you see, Will give you four; add one again, Which comes to five, that's half of ten; Now add another to it, six; For seven, one more one affix; Add one to seven, you'll find that's eight If you correctly calculate; Add one for nine, add one for ten, Then stop; you must begin again

But this time with a difference —

Start counting as they do in France:

'Un et un et un font trois.'

Continuez dnq cent mille fois. . . .

(Mike Morrison) Watch these two goldfish in their bowl: They're swimming round and round, With gently waving fins and tails; They don't make any sound.

At times the larger fish goes first, At times he drops behind. Or is it that the hen drops back, As she may have a mind?

Who is the master in the bowl? It's very hard to know.

Who leads? Who follows? Who can tell?

As round and round they go.

There are two goldfish in the bowl, With lacy tails and fins.

They're swimming clotkwise now. Suppose That they swam widdershins.

(John Sweetman)

No. 1889: Why indeed?

Keats wrote a sonnet beginning, 'Why did I laugh last gightT You are invited to do the same. Entries to 'Competition No. 1889' by 6 July.