In Devil’s Frying-Pan field today,
I came across a strange array
Of high-viz coats and bobble hats,
Of buckets, spades and kneeling mats.

These are archaeologists,
Enveloped in the rain and mists,
I’ll introduce them, in a mo,
Starting with the head honcho.

Cuthbert Capstone is a boss
Who really doesn’t give a toss
For cracking whips or being feared
He just smiles, and grows his beard.

Ursula Upright, his number two,
Motivates the motley crew.
‘Dig the dirt until you ache,
And I’ll produce a yummy cake.

’Poised with pencil, Polly Planner,
Hair tied up with a bandana,
Dangling lead on bits of string,
Plots absolutely everything.

Maurice Mattock writes the blog;
A merry little monologue.
He’s also into skulls and bones,
A regular Indiana Jones.

And now we spy Felicity Flint,
Down on her knees – a buxom bint,
Who always gives great satisfaction
With the vigour of her action.

Ernestine Troweller, bum in the air,
Completes this doughty, delving pair;
‘The Rock Chicks’ is their soubriquet,
And granite’s in their DNA.

Percival Potts, alone in his cab,
Scrapes back earth right down to the rab.
He’s at it till the day expires –
A pointless task, as it transpires.

Cecelia Scrubber and Lettice Leaf
Long for a Stone-Age leitmotif.
All boulders they investigate,
Shampoo and then exfoliate.

Then there’s rookie Sylvester Sondage,
A menial, to those in charge;
Made to clean each piddling pebble
As thoroughly as he is able.

Barnaby Bucket, his co-digee,
Loves his archaeology.
He likes to give all food a go,
But most of all, he loves gateaux.

Doug Pitt does what it says on the tin:
Holes appear wherever he’s been.
He’ll hack and hew and till and toil,
And loves to frolic in the spoil,

As does RAFfish Roddy Riddler,
King of the sieve – a mighty twiddler;
Standing, stooping, unawares,
Pushing mud through tiny squares.

Gordon Granite, stoic scullion,
Is a resident of Mullion.
Like his name, he’s hard as nails
When mattocking or furling sails.

Belinda Backfill’s curly locks
Bob up and down among the rocks,
While Shirley Shovel fills her pail
And scrapes away, to no avail.

On half-term, Tobias Turfer,
Is an underwhelmed unearther;
For he, and lithe Lolita Lithic,
Find that flints are not prolific.

Without Philomena Phix-It,
Force majeure, who never bricks it,
Granite upright number four
Would still be flat upon the floor.

With her nous and charm and guile,
This splendid megalithophile
Will beg, implore, beseech and plead
To garner funds that they will need
Next year to finish their exploit
And re-erect Carwynnen Quoit.

Pam McInally Nov 2013

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