Al fresco

In competition No. 2457 you were invited to offer a poem entitled ‘The Picnic’.

The picnics of my youth in Surrey were enjoyable but slightly suburban — Newlands Corner, Chobham Common and so on — but never as suburban as Tony Goldman’s Betjeman-inspired picnic, which ended up with him ‘silent upon a peak in Godalming’. Later I discovered the joys of Pyrenean dingles with secret meadows dotted with natural tables of smooth rock. Nowadays I prefer my tables less natural. Your picnics veered between the halcyon déjeuner sur l’herbe and the sodden disaster. Ray Kelley, Godfrey Bullard and Alanna Blake earn commendations, but the £25 prizes go to the winners printed below, while Basil Ransome-Davies scoops the bonus fiver with his inside job.

Trouble in Roussillon — cold summer sleet —
Rules out the mountain footpaths, so instead
We buy a lush array of things to eat
and hold our picnic on the hotel bed.

A pastis while we let the Fitou breathe,
with Spanish olives green as wetted jade…
outside the agitated heavens seethe,
but indoors who can rain on our parade?

The rare roast beef and vin du Midi meet
with all the warmth of a secure entente;
a mild Cantal to follow, then for sweet
a scented melon from Poitou-Charentes.

A carpet-picnic has that special feel,
the charm of the spontaneous event,
as lovers share an unofficial meal,
then slip between the sheets in sheer content.
Basil Ransome-Davies

‘Now, Hannah, dear, you shouldn’t be so rude
About your mother’s lovely, healthy food.
We’ll feed the guinea pig — for goodness’ sake!
Share Darren’s crisps and David’s chocolate cake.
There is no reason to be smutty, Jack,
The bull and cow are playing piggyback.
And, Katie, stop that screaming! That’s not blood.
I warned you not to paddle in the mud.
Jason and Justin, this is not a fight,
It’s the class picnic! No, Jill, flies don’t bite
And wasps have yellow stripes.