Solicitors and the Arts: Selected poems

WHEN JESUS CAME TO COOKHAM by Adam Taylor of Adlex Solicitors, LondonIn Sir Stanley Spencer's 1920 painting 'Christ Carrying The Cross', Jesus is shown walking down the main street in Cookham-on-Thames, Berkshire.When Jesus came to Cookham

He strolled down The main streetFor three minutesOne Saturday morningWithout warningMrs HazlittFrom the bookshopCouldn't quitePlace the face

When Jesus came to Cookham

Mr PorterSipping wine On his balconyLooked up, wavedAnd wondered whetherTo finance a shrineThen returned to the FT

When Jesus came to Cookham

No one knewQuite what to doOne person gatheredIn the churchWhere the priest advisedAgainst a sacrificeWhether animalOr otherwise

When Jesus came to Cookham

It took him Three minutesTo realiseHe'd come too soonSo he leftCarrying a caseIn the shape of a cross

by Philip Kirkpatrick, partner at Bates Wells & Braithwaite, London to the eighteen billionth pointAnd counting, counting and still, stillNo end.

Does God so amusehimself ofAfternoons or aeons evenNow and then everlasting?

Fix the mathematical worldWithin our compass.

Pin thepointDown to the last point and still, stillThe nineteen billionth point eludes.Open the rock.

Crack open the rock.Expose its granite form to airAnd square, square root and square againAnd reconstruct its rigid pose In numbers.

Find there .

DescribeThe atoms' planetary hum,Electrons round nuclei.

How more understood than musicOf celestial holy spheres?No atomic or angelicSounds delight our ears.

The rock stands Tutankhamun still, unknownAnd like the final point of ,In infinite complexitySo simple, eludes our graspAnd sits as quiet this afternoonAs once perhaps for Ptolemy

MARILYN THE MERMAIDby Ian Henery of Ian Henery & Co, Willenhall, West MidlandsFor SimPeople often ask where the magic has gone in the world.

How can Mother Nature give fairies, elves andmer-people when our furnaces belch filth into the sky and we shamelessly tip pollution into the seas killing dolphins and seals? No life, love or happiness could ever survive.Marilyn the MermaidAs sweet as can be;Playing in the wavesAnd living in the sea.

A friend to dolphins,Beautiful seals and whales tooTogether, just living a lifeIn the peaceful ocean blue

Pollution, death and misery,Products of a superior race;Hell-bent on destruction,Pumping into the sea its waste

Marilyn the Mermaid,Crucified on the tuna netsBlown apart by fishermenAnd condemned a pest

THE SUPPLEMENTARY LOG by George Staple QC, a consultant at Clifford Chance, LondonFarewell, broad prospekts,obelisks, domes,The time has come to set a courseAlong the Hanseatic routeFrom Petersburg to Helsingfors,Passed deserted naval trappings,Gone the hostile Baltic fleet Empty quays and empty basinsSilent in the August heat.

Out into the Gulf of Finland Through the early morning hazePeter's summer palace shimmers.Glories of imperial days!Diesel power propels us onwards With sails remaining tightly furledMerchant vessels pass us ladenFrom Peter's 'Window on the World'.

By now it's almost twelvehours later,The yacht's beyond the shipping lanesSome five miles south of Ostrov Gogland,No other ship, in sight, remains.Nothing untoward has happened,But just as dusk begins to fallFrom somewhere on the starboard beamThere comes a loud despairing call.

'That's a walrus' cries a yachtsman,With which the man on watch agrees.'Surely seals' suggests anotherWith knowledge of the Arcticseas.'Wait, let's look a little closer',And crystal lenses soon reveal At, say, one cable length a formThat's very different from a seal.

The head and shoulders of a manAre rising up and falling back,Waving arms and thrashing waterUntil the helmsman changes tack.We reach the spot and pull him out;At first he fights to catch his breathWhile terror masks his ashen face,He is redeemed from certain death.

Name: Nikolai from Odessa;A seaman; twenty three years old;Assistant cook on m.v.

Abra;A Cypriot vessel, we are told.She's twenty seven thousand tonsAnd bound for the United States,Although her master is not oneWho readily communicates.

'We have a member of your crew,Fell overboard three hours ago,Been rescued from the sea unharmed,He's pretty well exhausted though.'Repeated calls to this effectAre met with indistinct replies;Transfer to the Finnish coast guardSeems altogether not unwise.

Eight hours to Suomenlinna,But northern nights are still quite shortAnd day is breaking when we reachOur moorings at the Finnish port.And as we leave him on the quayWhat does the future have in storeWithout possessions, perhaps nojob,Yet still alive and safe ashore?