The boiling hot weather had just said “goodbye” as the poets gathered for their August meeting (writes Philip Marsden). And back in the Gilroy Phillips Garden the members tottered in. All seemed to have been struck down by the monstrous heat… shrivelled, desiccated and clearly aged. Even the trees had surrendered as they have opted for an early autumn; having yielded to nature, as they say.

But wait …wait a while. What is that? At the gate an apparition. The return of a recently departed poet who had broken out of the furnace in the early days and had joined the Trump set in America. Searching for the truth, she said. Looking for material for a new anthology. Well, she has certainly been enlightened though I am not sure in the best way. A lovely buckskin ensemble, a ten-gallon hat, spangles, jeans (ventilated at the knee) and heels. She fired a village into the sky. Good to have this June back though she may have done better for herself staying at home frizzling not frying, like the rest of us. She may be a long-term case.

Miss Draper opened the meeting describing her recent visit to Davos in Canton Graubünden in Switzerland. But Anne, unlike the Poetry Group members who would have been smashing world records on two skis, chose to join the World Economic Forum (on our behalf); staying at the Steigenberger Grand Hotel, Belvedere Seven Star (at our expense). All for promoting the Tenby poets. What an archangel she is. There she mingled with the world’s best… Presidents, Archdukes, tyrants, Prime Ministers, Chancellors, Sheiks, drug dealers, Generalissimos and Royalty. Told me she had felt much at home amongst this gathering. Easier in fact, than at the poetry group where she feels she is simply a slide under a microscope. She told us all she had had a over half hour chat with Prince Charles on the subject of sustainability. She herself had not offered anything to this conversation because she was not sure of the protocol of breaking into a royal obsession.

It was time to move to poetry and our noisiest member (but sincerest) did his best at interpreting the foghorn in a North Country Brass band. He did his best but the general view was torture. Liz was next with her own poem. I must say I admire these souls who compose their own and then deliver as if on the stage of R.S.C. Better than the noise blasted posturing of performer number one. Watch your step Mrs Grace Darling, you have a rival up in the North East.

Everybody loves Clive, another who performs his own work, but the degree of the warmth ranges from zero to just under forty percent. People fear him I know for myself, with his evil eye neckwear. I never quite know where you are with him; but this week he excelled with a parody on the “Cultured Types”; then an observation on the “Rusty Resort” and finally an “Ode to the Perfect Fish and Chips”. Salt from the sugar sprinkler, vinegar by Sarsons (the best in the world), ketchup from plastic squeeze bottles, a Daddy’s sauce from the sachet. Plastic knives and spoons, paper, disposable crockery; “not very sustainable too,” remarked Miss Draper. I was feeling very ill by then. I needed tranquillity.

Chris Hughes helped with his Ballad of Rum. Spoiled a bit for me by my neighbour whispering “Barrel of rum, lovely grub”. Trish Livingstone has a quite formidable stage talent and this week it blossomed with Joyce Grenfell’s “Time”. It took us through the various ages of the woman from young girl to cantankerous old bat. It made me smile. Then with shotguns firing into the blue stepped June in her dazzling spangly suit. She would be reading a William Cowper, an eighteenth-century British Poet and I was so pleased. I had feared her new American style would have forced some Walt Disney Micky Mouse on us. And to follow we heard the works of Paul Cowper who she said was his great great grandson, and the poem “Pursue Your Dreams”. This was so good it should be included in the National Curriculum.

Whenever Eddie Stapleton takes stage, we know we are in for a treat. This time he regaled us with a follow up to the original “Little Bo Peep” nursery rhyme. And better than the original template to be sure, by one hundred times. A comic genius is Eddie. Liz, a true heroine of North East England writes, it seems, her poetry every day, rarely stopping for things like a glass of water, or to walk the dog. She writes in a practical no-nonsense way and towards the end of this Symposium it was amazingly apposite that her poem was entitled “Clearing up” for Clive was at the end of another serving of fish and chips, slimy chips and assorted containers had started to cover the decks, so to speak. Philip was straining to do his “Melissa” but Miss Draper knew best for she had pre-read his words. It was not suitable to this group. If fact it was not suitable for any group in the world. Davos seems to have hygiened her.

The meeting had been excellent as always. The next meeting is Sunday, September 18in the Garden. If the weather is bad though we automatically switch to the Old Chapel on Lower Frog Street. Post Script - The winner this week of the monthly prize is Philip Marsden. The answer, “Calamity Jayne”. (Note from the Chair – any resemblance to reality of this poetic flight of fancy is purely accidental!)