Centrifugal false

Some textbooks still perpetuate the idea that a thing called ‘centrifugal force’ is pulling outwards on a mass being whirled around on a string; they say it’s what keeps the string taut. In fact, the string has to stay in tension in order continually to drag the mass away from its natural tendency to travel in a straight line . . .

Tie a mass on to a string. Let it hang – don’t let it swing.
There’s a tension in the cord, and that’s the clue:
There’s a serious pulling force (it is gravity, of course)
Acting downwards on the mass, away from you.

Now whirl the mass, instead, in a circle round your head:
Still a tension in the cord, I think you’ll find;
So are we right to claim there’s an outwards force again?
That depends upon the picture in your mind.

First, imagine you’re the mass (oh, you poor demented ass!);
You can feel an inwards tension from the string,
And you think, “That tension oughta make the string a little shorter,
Yet it isn’t so. Now there’s a curious thing!

It must mean, by Newton’s Laws, there must be another force
That is opposite and equal to it, see?”
You think, “Opposite direction means it’s outwards in complexion –
A centrifugal force! So QED.”

????

Now pretend that you can fly: go and hover in the sky.
(Someone else can do the whirling – show them how.)
From this aerial perspective you can be a force detective:
Can you see what’s going on below you now?

“Things go straight (or do not move) as though they’re travelling in a groove,
If no forces are externally exerted.”
That’s what Isaac Newton said; and, even though he’s dead,
His Laws are frequently asserted.

So, if what you’re now observing is a whirling mass that’s curving,
It’s curving ‘cos a force is hard at work.
It’s an inwards-acting traction with a centripetal action,
Acting on the mass to change its state.

So the mass is forced to swerve as it travels in its curve:
The dynamic equilibrium of flight.
Centrifugal force? A myth! Don’t believe in things like thyth!
Just release the string to prove that I am right . . .

[Images: Clipart etc (top); quora.com (second); Pirates and Revolutionaries (third); Wikimedia Commons (bottom)]
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The middle way

Gravity and inertia both think they control the universe. In fact, neither gets its own way.

As planets orbit, they are thrown by solar gravitation
Into ellipses, ’gainst their own inertial inclination.
Inertia is a tad annoyed, she’s feeling put upon,
Her whinging echoes through the void – she does go on and on!

“I don’t like changes, I resist ‘em; curvatures I shirk.
The orbits of the Solar System are the Devil’s work:
The planets ought to travel straight, it is their natural way!
Ellipses I’d eliminate – Inertia rules, ok?”

But deep in space, another stirred: “That’s what you think,” said he,
He’d listened in to every word. His name was Gravity.
“My influence is everywhere, benignly interactive.
It makes each bright celestial sphere peculiarly attractive.

My pulling power is so great that things need no assistance
To centripetally gravitate; most offer no resistance.
If I had my way, every star in every constellation
Would race together from afar – a mighty conflagration!”

If you’re a planet, neither fate can bear imagination:
You’d either freeze, or gravitate towards annihilation . . .
So better far to steer a way between these mighty forces –
That’s why the planets choose to stay on their elliptic courses.

[Image: baamboozle.com]
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Getting together

Some 600 million years ago, in the late Precambrian Period, the northern and southern parts of the British Isles were separated by a vast ocean. Scotland was then close to the equator, on the edge of a huge continent called Laurentia, while southern Britain was not far from the Antarctic Circle at the edge of Gondwana, another colossal super-continent. This is the romantic tale of how they came together . . .

We’re a couple, we’re an item, like we’ve never been apart.
But it hasn’t been an easy ride, especially at the start
When five thousand miles of ocean (more or less) got in the way –
Well, it made things pretty difficult and kept our love at bay.

Have you heard it said that, strangely, total opposites attract?
Well, they surely did with us, for it’s a well established fact
That Laurentia, where my Scottie lived, was tropical and hot,
While I languished near the southern Pole – a God-forsaken spot.

We were wild and we were eager in those late Precambrian times,
But it hurt to be apart, for we were youngsters in our primes!
For a hundred million years we had no hope of ever meeting,
Then an Ordovician turn-around soon got our hearts a-beating.

There was something – was it Fate? – that started drawing us together,
And we felt that old excitement when we knew it was forever:
Old Iapetus, the ocean, which was all that stood between us,
Very slowly started closing (could it be the Gods had seen us?)

In my eagerness, I left my home, Gondwana, far behind;
I was part of Avalonia now, with one thing on my mind.
I knew patience was a virtue, but my eyes welled up with tears,
For I’d have to make it stretch another thirty million years . . .

It took ages, but I made it. As the ocean slowly closed
And my heart began to flutter, my Scottish laird proposed:
“Let us spend our lives together!” “Yes, of course, my love,” I sighed.
As our bodies met, they set off hot volcanic fires inside.

Our emotions matched the mountains that arose when we collided;
And, once joined in geo-wedlock, we would never be divided.
So it hasn’t been an easy ride, especially at the start –
But we’re happy joined together and no-one shall make us part.

[Maps: cdn.britannica.com]
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Earthquakes have no morals

The backside of life’s rich tapestry:

Earthquakes have no morals; hurricanes have no heart;
Lightning isn’t careful where it aims its fateful dart;
Volcanoes aren’t too choosy where they squirt their lava streams;
Radiation isn’t bothered if it messes up your genes;

Tsunamis, floods and avalanches don’t divert their action;
Meteors have no qualms about terrestrial impaction.
If all these things don’t get you, like as not bacteria will,
Or parasites, or viruses, or prions out to kill.

We want to say “How dreadful,” but these things are bound to be –
Not all is bright and beautiful in life’s rich tapestry.
The heat that churns the Earth and air supports all living things,
While water, in its quieter moods, grows cabbages and kings;

And lightning’s electricity and bright illumination
Might once have pushed a molecule towards self-replication.
But what about those microbes? Well, it seems, on close inspection,
That some live deep inside us and facilitate digestion.

So nature is both black and white: it’s nasty and it’s nice –
Choose a dodgy time or place and you’re a sacrifice!
We have a sense of danger, and must use it to survive:
Keep an eye on Mother Nature if you want to stay alive . . .

[Photo of Tangshan, China, 1976: indiatvnews.com]
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Charmouth’s revenge

The crumbling coast between Lyme Regis and Charmouth in the English county of Dorset is a famously rich source of early Jurassic fossils. In the Charmouth area, its Blue Lias shales make it notoriously unstable, as demonstrated by a major landslip in December 2000. News reports said the area would be roped off, for people’s safety . . .

The residents of Charmouth say they’ve seen it all before.
“As soon as chunks of cliff break off and slide down on the shore,
Geologists arrive in hordes. It happens every time,
And all the B&Bs are filled from here along to Lyme.

Our coast erodes at rapid rates each time there’s storms and gales,
But weather’s not the only thing that eats away our shales:
Those rock-hounds come and hack away at landslips that aren’t stable.
We put up signs and cordon off as much as we are able,

And warn ’em not to risk their lives; but do they listen? No,
They hurry past us to the beach – so we just let ’em go.
If they get buried, ’tis their fault; it should be no surprise.
‘Tis not our job to dig ’em out – we let ’em fossilise!”

Postscript: They’re more humane if you’re only 10 years old, as this 2011 photograph of coastguards rescuing young Callum Currie shows:

[Photos: Daily Mail/SWNS (top); dailymail.co.uk (bottom)]
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Wavicles

Experiments prove that photons and electrons behave as waves. Experiments also prove that they behave as particles. Imagine firing a stream of photons (light) or electrons at two slits, very close together in a screen. You’ll find that, over a period of time, they build up a wave-type interference pattern on a second screen behind the first. But quantum theory says that, if you try to detect which slit a particular photon or electron goes through, they will instead build up a particle-type pattern. You simply can’t keep the wave-type pattern and know which way each photon or electron went. Very odd.


We’re photons and electrons,
We pop up everywhere;
You think of us as particles
And waves, but we don’t care.

When we’re moving in large numbers
Your predictions of our flow
As current, or as light beams,
Aren’t bad, as such things go.

But you cannot track us singly
Through slits onto a screen:
You can’t detect which slit we use
Or tell where we have been.

You claim your maths explains us,
And yet it is not so.
We’re aspects of reality
That you can never know.

Your  paradigms are faulty,
Your theories are all duff;
Herr Schrödinger’s equations,
Though good, aren’t good enough.

Such sorry facts should highlight
The limits of your brain.
Just leave it to evolve a bit
Before you try again!

[Image: paulkiser.wordpress.com (waves); sciencblogs.com (particles)]
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Schrödinger’s dog

This canine must have read Schrödinger’s cat, and is planning an alternative quantum experiment . . .

So the cat’s in the box? Good! It’s what it deserved.
Now I’ll guard it, to keep it from being ‘observed’;
Then its quantum dichotomy can’t decohere –
That’ll teach it just who is the boss around here!

[Image: freepik.com]
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Schrödinger’s cat

In 1935, Erwin Schrödinger imagined a cat locked for an hour in a box with a radioactive substance which has a 50% probability of emitting a particle that would then trigger the release of deadly cyanide. At any point during the hour, is the cat dead or alive? Quantum theory seems to imply that it’s simultaneously in ‘coherent’ dead and alive states – until you open the box and ‘observe’ its condition. . .

I am not a happy cat.
I was sitting on my mat
When they locked me in this box. “A test,” they said.
But now I’m feeling queer,
It’s as though I’m not quite here –
Am I really still alive, or am I dead?

It’s my quantum states, I s’pose;
They’ve all got superposed.
But I know the way to crack this paradox:
In order to preserve me
I must get them to observe me,
So I’ll kick up a commotion in this box.

Well, I’ve jumped and banged and crashed,
But something in here’s smashed;
There’s a nasty smell – it’s cyanide, I’m sure.
I fear my plan’s misfired –
I’ve decohered . . . expired.
Erwin Schrödinger has much to answer for.

[Image: moviesandscience.com]

[See also Schrödinger’s dog]

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Cosmic conundrum

What you get is what you see – but what you see might not still exist . . .

A lonely little photon
Came rushing through the sky.
As I turned my head to see it,
It flew into my eye.

My retina absorbed it
And used its energy
To fire an optic neuron
That helped my brain to ‘see’.

And what it ‘saw’ was starlight
From the depths of outer space.
(That photon travelled light-years
Before it hit my face.)

The queer thing is that maybe
Its parent star’s now dead –
Its last-emitted photon
The one inside my head!

Well, little cosmic orphan,
You’ve really got me going:
Are stars and planets real or not?
There seems no way of knowing.

If sight is not reliable
At proving things exist,
I may as well just give up
And get extremely drunk.

[Photo: https://discoveryeye.org]
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Millennium ark

How to survive the effects of global warming?


The outlook’s not good, the predictions are dire,
The ice-sheets are melting, the sea’s getting higher,
And fossil fuel stocks won’t last out for ever.
If there is a solution, it’d better be clever.

So I’m planning an Ark with a huge solar panel
And a Global Positioning Satellite channel
With radar and sonar and intricate gearing
That plots the best courses and does all the steering;

The waste gets recycled, the food’s grown on board,
Rainwater’s collected and filtered and stored.
It’s better than Noah’s: mine’s bristling with new bits,
And bigger by far – one or two gigacubits.

Now I must get a move on, or I’ll be caught out,
But there’s one little problem I’ve got to sort out:
I still need to develop a stabilised hammock,
That will quell the unease of my landlubber’s stomach . . .

[Image: chabad.org]
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Nicolaus Steno

A 17th century anatomist discovers a duct, and asserts some basic tenets of geology and crystallography before becoming a bishop . . .


Nicolaus Steno, a Dane,
Said old rocks will be overlain
By younger ones, neatly stacked on them discretely.
(Seems obvious now – quite mundane.)

He’d studied shark’s teeth, so he knew
When he found them in rocks (as you do)
That they’d come from a jaw, not, as folk thought before,
Been grown there, or dropped from the blue.

And that is not all, for what’s more
He’s got an eponymous Law –
And a Duct (it’s quite little and fills up with spittle,
But it hadn’t been noticed before).

At last, he set science aside
To follow a spiritual guide:
The Church sent him forth to Germany’s north.
But just nine years later, he died.

[Image: Wikipedia]
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Red-hot

A new theory of how granite reaches the surface has been researched by Dr Nick Petford and colleagues at Kingston University, by considering the fluid dynamics of magma. The effects predicted for the view currently held by most petrologists, that pear-shaped ‘diapirs’ of magma rise slowly through the Earth’s crust, are not found in the field. The Kingston group have found that granite’s viscosity is orders of magnitude lower than had previously been thought, and believe it could have risen instead as a fluid magma in the form of veins and dykes.

It’s really rather queer that a granite diapir
Doesn’t strain the ground as physics says it ought;
Yet countless textbook pages have pictured them for ages
As pear-shaped blobs, as geologists have taught.

When they’ve looked at granite stumps they’ve seen worn-down dome-topped lumps –
Clear signs of diapirric form below?
And those acres glowing red on our geo-maps, they said,
Were ‘proof’ their big idea was really so.

But there’s another view that’s relatively new:
It’s based on detailed thermal computations
Plus Stokes’s Law for flows, and it’s led some to suppose
That granite’s flow rates beat all expectations.

A centimetre a second it can go, or so it’s reckoned;
It can wind its upward way through veins and dykes.
(So the earlier idea of a blobby diapir
Is one the Kingston group no longer likes.)

And when it finds a fault, the granite doesn’t halt.
Instead, it puddles out to fill the gaps,
Forming horizontal blocks of intruded granite rocks.
And that’s what’s coloured red on all the maps.

[Images: wikipedia; variscancoast.co.uk]
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Confusion

Things are not always what they seem . . .


‘I think, therefore I am,’ said Descartes when in a jam.
He reckoned only thought itself was sure;
All else could be deception. An interesting conception,
But one that has a dubious allure.

The whole idea of ‘self’ is the key to mental health,
Yet self is mind, and mind’s a brain-based thing.
The brain interprets what the senses say they’ve got
Which makes the whole thing very puzzling.

I used to think my eyes would never tell me lies,
But optical illusions prove me wrong:
My brain starts off confused, then ends up quite bemused –
It finds it’s been deluded all along.

While I’m asleep, eyes shut, my mind stays active; but
I wake, and usually know I’ve just been dreaming.
Yet sometimes it’s so real that I cannot help but feel
That I’m still in it – running, jumping, screaming.

One possible defence is to use the other senses
To check if you can touch and hear and smell
The thing your brain insists is out there and exists.
But what if they are mind-tricks too? Oh hell!

[Photo: pngwing.com]
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Guy’s rock

After a spell as an officer in the French Army officer, Guy de Dolomieu (1750–1801) became Professor of Mineralogy . . .


A limestone with Mg
Is a local specialty
Of the southern Tyrol region. It was here
Guy Tancrède de Dolomieu –
A guy who knew a thing or tieu –
Named it Dolomite. The reason’s crystal clear!

[Image: Annales des Mines]
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Cat-astrophic!

Georges Cuvier (1769–1832) studied mummified cats and ibises which had been brought back to Paris from Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt. Because they looked much the same as animals alive in his day, he concluded that evolution had not occurred, and that species extinctions had resulted from periodic “catastrophes”.


Georges Cuvier reckoned he knew
(Old mummified mogs were the clue)
Extinctions had been
Catastrophic. He’d seen
No change between old cats and new,

So species that now are extinct
Must have perished; and Cuvier linked
Each loss to a whopping
Catastrophe, stopping
Their family tree ere they blinked.

[Image: ucmp.berkeley.edu; strangehistory.net]
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Newton’s Fourth Law

The science of bitter experience. . .

That deep-thinking chap, Isaac Newton,
Had views he was quite resolute on.
His Fourth Law states clearly
That you will pay dearly
If you sit under trees with ripe fruit on.

[Image: BBC]
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Flossie

To see intact insects inside blobs of amber is pretty impressive; but does anyone stop to think that the creature inside was some poor insect mother’s child? I did:

’Twas amber got my Flossie.
I’d warned her every day:
“Don’t go near any pine trees,”
I always used to say.

But kids don’t listen, do they?
Especially to their mother;
Whatever you say in one ear,
Goes straight through and out the other.

“Oh Mum! The risk is miniscule,”
She’d argue back at me,
“And even if I do get stuck
I’ll easily wriggle free.”

We did some grown-up talking
Which did no good at all;
I ended up just bashing
My head on her brick wall.

She flew off one fine morning
To catch a juicy grub
A-wriggling and a-squirming
On a tree. And there’s the rub . . .

Six legs. . . all trapped in amber . . .
There’s no more I can say.
There seems no joy in anything
Since Flossie passed away.

If there’s a God in Heaven,
He really, really oughta
Stop pine trees oozing resin
That fossilised my daughter.

[Photo: telegraph.co.uk]
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An old pair of genes

I find many books on geology hard to take in, because of the way they throw in lots of different, but similar sounding, words describing the period they’re talking about. Eventually, I discovered that the terminology was changing . . .

A seven-cene play plots Earth’s most recent past:
There’s Holo– and Pleisto– (their time-spans aren’t vast);
Next Plio-, then Mio-, then Oligocene,
And finally Eo– and Palaeocene.

Nomenclature freaks who worked in seclusion
Once introduced –genes that increased confusion;
So –cenes three and four were called ‘Neogene’,
While –cenes five to seven were ‘Palaeogene’.

But genes such as these, with no DNA,
Were destined to gradually wither away.
So Neogene, Palaeogene you should delete
From elderly texts, for they’re quite obsolete*.

Chart: bgs.ac.uk

*Seems I was wrong! The International Committee on Stratigraphy uses them in their 2018 International Statigraphic Chart – see Subcommittee on Quaternary Stratigraphy’s 2018 document

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Flood basalts

A recent television programme dealt with the possible link between these vast outpourings of lava, whose remnants now show as stacked-up layers of basalt, such as India’s Deccan Traps and America’s Columbia River province, and at least some of the great mass extinctions.

Keep a look-out for doming – it could be an omen
Of a mantle plume coming our way.
They rise a great distance with thermal assistance,
Like a lava lamp’s globby display.

But now hear the worst: they erupt in a burst,
Huge volumes of basalt flood out.
Kilometres cubed, by the million, are spewed
All over the land round about.

When flood basalts outpoured, palaeontologists record
Mass extinctions near contemporaneously;
Looks like cause and effect, but let’s not neglect
Other things that occurred simultaneously:

Mantle plumes do much more, they affect spreading sea floor,
Volcanism, sea levels and rifts.
Did any of these cause catastrophes
By triggering environment shifts?

Or was a rogue asteroid by the heavens deployed
To drive species over the brink?
Could either recur? How could we prepare?
Who knows – but it sure makes you think.

See also The pressure-pulse hypothesis

[Artist’s impression: geo.mtu.edu/kabrna.com]
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Earth

Things looked different before I got into geology:


When I was seven years post-birth,
I thought the Earth was made of earth.
I’d dug a hole, on hands and knees,
Aimed straight at the Antipodes –

Specifically, at Alice Springs.
I’d scratched and scraped with trowels and things;
Sometimes the going got quite tough,
But what came out was earthy stuff.

So Earth was earth. I’d proved it so:
However deep my hole would go,
No basement rocks, no sills or dykes,
No faults appeared, no clints or grikes,

No mantle, crust or iron-rich core,
No sedimentary fossil-store –
A clear result from all my toil!
(And piles and piles and piles of soil . . . )

[Photo: Daily Mail/Polly Wreford/Ryland Peters & Small]
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Volcanics

A case of geological indigestion:

I’m one degree under.
I don’t feel too grand.
There’s a fire in my belly
I don’t understand.

My insides seem bloated,
My guts are corroded,
And – oops! – pardon me!
Looks like I’ve exploded.

[Image: solarnavigator.net]
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Time’s passed

Getting to grips with time is always a problem, but in geology it’s well nigh impossible for a Bear of little brain.


The sands of time, when they are spent,
Drop from its flowing stream,
Compact, metamorphose, fragment,
To leave a jumbled dream.

Though I can use my mind’s own eye
To re-cast recent years,
Vast geologic timescales lie
Outside its mental spheres.

Geologists talk with practised ease
Of Periods and Eras,
But that’s because such terms as these
Shrink time to help their hearers.

A thousand million years? Such things
(Although I’ve really tried),
Like history’s great wars and kings,
Just hurt my brain inside.

[Image from Curiosities of the Church, by William Andrews (1848-1908): fromoldbooks.org]
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Listening in

On the Atlantic sea floor, where geology meets oceanography, the UK’s Open University makes itself felt . . .


I’m just a bit of sea floor on this mighty solid sphere.
With no mind to be broadened, I’m quite content down here.
The mantle churns below me, and the sea’s in turmoil, too;
But nothing much disturbs me, I’m rock solid through and through.

I do pick up occasional low-frequency vibrations –
(I think, although I can’t be sure, they’re sperm whales’ conversations).
I know I shouldn’t listen in, but what else can one do?
It seems they are all studying for degrees from the OU.

They’ve mentioned me in passing, as their minds begin improving:
I think I heard them say “The theory says the sea-floor’s moving . . .”.
Well, that shook me, I can tell you; yes, it gave me quite a fright.
Yet I’ve not moved for ages, so I know it can’t be right.

They call it “Plate Tectonics”, this new theory in their noddle.
If they would only ask me, I could tell them it’s all twaddle.
Apparently, I “oozed out from a mid-Atlantic split,
Solidified and cooled right down, then moved out, bit by bit”.

But, how can I be moving, when I know full well myself
That I’m quite firmly anchored to a continental shelf?
“Well, the continent is moving, too; you’re pushing it, you see,”
I hear those OU whales intone, hydro-acoustically.

Now, my best mate’s a sea floor in the mighty East Pacific.
He reckons life is balmy there: the summers are terrific!
He’s heard the whale-talk, too, and found it pretty scary.
“Subduction” was the word he heard, which sounded rather hairy.

It was to be his fate, they claimed with undisguised great relish:
A hot and fiery end to things – it really would be hellish.
In fact, he’d end up underneath my continent, lengthwise,
So I would be the one to blame for my poor mate’s demise.

Well, thank you very much, OU. You’ve upset my composure.
Next time you send your student whales to look at my exposure
I’ll tell them it’s a load of tosh: it’s they who move, not me,
Those arty-smarty blobs of blubber, clogging up the sea!

[Images: science-site.com (sea floor); dailymail.co.uk (whales); www.quora.com (sea-floor spreading); cujo359.blogspot.co.uk (subduction)]
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Burrows

The maker of a type of trace fossil stakes his (or her) claim to fame:


As fast as I make burrows
To hide from all my foes,
This blooming silt backfills them.
Ah well, that’s life I s’pose.

At least they are a record
Of my travels here and there
For you to find in future.
But I wonder if you’ll care?

I know you types: enraptured
By anything with shells on,
Not boring old trace fossils.
You like your finds with bells on.

But traces can be useful:
They help you orient
The layers that I dug through
In ancient sediment.

[Photo of Thalassinoides (that’s the name of the trace fossil, not their maker): Wikimedia Commons]
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On the shelf

Continental shelves make seaside paddling possible, but it hasn’t always been so . . .

Poor Pangaea felt she could stand it no more,
With tension and stress everywhere;
So she faulted and rifted, creating sea-floor,
And hot mantle rock mended the tear.

Her new continent edges, now stretched out and thinning,
Were moved ever further apart.
The sea flooded in, and from this beginning
A new ocean appeared on the chart.

Then wind, waves and rainwater each had their way,
Bringing sediment down all the while;
So the continent shelf soon sloped gently away
With a fall of nine feet in each mile.

When ice last lay heavy and deep on the land,
The sea level fell like a stone
Exposing the shelf, so life could expand
To make this new landscape its home.

But glacials don’t last for ever. The sea
Soon returned as the temperature rose.
(Beneath it, there’s oil, coal and gas: not for free –
As they’re used up, their mining cost grows).

Our insular status was thus re-conferred.
But, should a new glacial come by,
Then Selsey would think that its prayers had been heard,
For its caravan parks would stay dry!

[Images: Wikipedia (top); scienceandthesea.org (centre); BBC News/Dee Caldwell (bottom)]
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A grazing trace

Trace fossils are the less glamorous geological finds, but can still reveal something about the distant past:


Us gastropods eat algae,
We graze ’em off the rocks
And leave the surface looking
Like a nasty case of pox.

Our ancestors did likewise,
Leaving tracks and trails behind ’em –
They’re what geologists will call
Trace fossils, if they find ’em.

[Photo of Helminthopsis (that’s the name of the trace fossil, not its maker): Mark A. Wilson/Wikimedia Commons]
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The plumber of Kimmeridge

Steve Etches MBE has been collecting local fossils from the Kimmeridge Clay in Dorset since the age of 5. When our Horsham geology group had a private viewing of his collection in 2006, it was housed in a humidity-controlled converted garage in his garden, but since 2016 has been on public display in the purpose-built Museum of Jurassic Marine Life in Kimmeridge. By trade, Steve is a plumber.

(To the tune of “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts”)

When next in Kimmeridge in Dorset,
Go and see Steve Etches’ wondrous store.
Brilliant! Splendid! Example to us all!
Fossils galore from the Kimmeridge shore
Excite, inspire, enthral.

When winds are blowing hard in Kimmeridge,
Steve goes to the beach to see what’s there:
Shark jaws, pliosaurs, unique and varied things.
He once hurt his back with a big fossil stack –
That’s what devotion brings!

Steve found a lovely row of vertebrae.
There they were, just peeping from the clay:
Big ones, small ones, some from near the head.
Gave them a clout and got them all out,
Intact within their bed.

‘Conservation saves things from the elements,
Stops them being scavenged by the waves.
Chip them, scrape them, clean them with a blast;
Arrange all the bits until each one fits
To reconstruct the past.’

He’s got a day job doing plumbing
(Helps to keep the wild wolf from the door).
Detecting, collecting, protecting all his finds
Has to be done in the time he’s not plumbing –
That’s how the man unwinds.

[Image: swanage.dorset/University of Reading]
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Flint

A poem based on Rory Mortimore’s exposition on Peacehaven beach (see also Poor Doris): the latest theory on how flint was formed in the Chalk.


If flint could talk from its seams in the Chalk,
Would it expound the great mystery –
How siliceous effusions formed hard, black intrusions
Which mankind has used throughout history?

Academics have proffered some theories, and offered
Explanations of how it occurred.
Rory Mortimore’s speech on the Peacehaven beach
Was spellbinding in every word:

“You can see the flint banding, it’s really outstanding,
But it’s only at certain positions –
That rhythm zodiacal, the Milankovitch cycle,
Periodically sets good conditions.

Chalky pore-water, a silica porter,
Seeps into burrows and cracks.
Then, up from below, an H2S flow
Meets O2 from the sea, and reacts.

That makes a surprising, quite acidic, horizon,
Just perfect for precipitations:
Silica comes out, and the Chalk round about
Gets replaced by flint nodule formations.”

[Photo: thecoastalpath.net]
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Chalk talk

This is in memoriam for coccolithophores – all the little planktonic creatures whose remains have made the Chalk. It’s based on Dr. Rory Mortimore’s explanation on the beach at Peacehaven in September 1999.


Please step gently on the chalk when you go out for a walk,
And consider what a marvel we have made.
We are there, beneath your feet, though our bodies aren’t complete,
For our softer parts have long ago decayed.

We were algae, really tiny creatures drifting in the briny;
But we made a major impact by creating
Round our bodies, like a mitten, to protect from being bitten,
Multi-sided coccospheric armour plating.

Ca-plus and CO3 we extracted from the sea
And persuaded, in an algal sort of way,
Both those ions to coalesce; and we did it, more or less,
Every minute, every hour of every day.

We secreted calcite disks which you’ll know as ‘coccoliths’
(Not an easy word to make a decent rhyme with).
Then we sank to the sea floor, joining those who’d gone before,
And whom we would be spending quite some time with . . .

When the mighty Alps were moulded we got rather squashed and folded,
Uplifted and exposed to wind and rain.
Then erosion’s rude ablating carved the Weald by relocating
A squillion tons of chalk to sea again.

And the process isn’t over, so, from Seaford Head to Dover,
Chunks of chalk cliff still collapse onto the shore.
And geologists assemble with their hammers all a-tremble,
Seeking fossils no-one’s ever seen before.

Go on, spend your summer hols taking healthy Downland strolls,
For there’s nowhere else quite like it, that’s our claim.
But, as you stride along full of jollity and song,
Spare a thought for what we went through ere you came.

See also Armour-plated algae

[Photomicrograph: Wikipedia]
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Poor Doris

This poem was inspired by a field trip to Peacehaven beach, led by Dr. Rory Mortimore, on 18 September 1999. He demonstrated how to remove a fossil from the Chalk, then lent me his hammer. I extracted an echinocorys which matched the size and shape of echinocorys scutata (large form) on Dr. Mortimore’s photocopied sheet. I took it home, cleaned it up with a toothbrush – then wondered what to do with it . . .


Doris Echinocorys came home with me.
I’d prised her out of a block by the sea
With a geological hammer in the time-honoured manner,
Chipping Peacehaven’s Chalk to set her shell free.

Eighty-odd million years before
Doris had hit the Cretaceous sea floor
For chalky encasement and calcite replacement
In a layer above the marly Old Nore.

Getting her out, there’s no denying,
Was quite an achievement and most satisfying
For one who, ’til now didn’t really know how,
And thought hammering rocks on the shore not worth trying.

She’s not tectiformis, truncata, cincata
Nothing so puny: she’s large-form scutata.
I’ve washed her and tagged her and dried her and bagged her.
I’ve done all things right, I could not have been smarter.

But Doris has neither beauty nor brain
(Not to mince words, she’s terribly plain).
I don’t much expect her to interest a collector –
I doubt if I’ll look at her ever again.

[Photos (of another one): Wikimedia]
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Memoirs

A dinosaur, probably a Tyrannosaurus Rex, has a story to tell, if only he could remember it . . .


I’m growing very, very old
And want to get my story told
Before my marbles go.
The centuries grind on apace –
(I’m losing track of time and place,
But feel it must be so).

I lived my life as I’d been taught:
I bashed and bullied, hunted and fought,
Survived from day to day.
I was a giant – I had some clout
And used to throw my weight about
In a most aggressive way.

My four-foot head had massive jaws;
Triceratops and hadrosaurs
Were what I had for tea.
My life was great – until one morning
When suddenly, and without warning,
A great catastrophe!

The details I have quite forgot;
I just recall that it was hot
And, ere my eye had blinked,
The sky went dark (or was it light?),
The sun turned black (or was it bright?)
And I became extinct.

Of course, they’ll say it wasn’t so:
“What hastened your demise was slow
Environmental change”.
Maybe it was. My brain is tired.
(By rights, it should have quite expired –
No wonder I feel strange.)

Soon, weathering may well expose
My footprints, vertebrae or nose
In ancient desert sand.
So, now I’ve told you of my life
(Though, as you see, confusion’s rife),
I hope you’ll understand.

[Image: dino-wikia.com]
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Pianorganists

A not-so rare hybrid to which many churches must resort, given the dearth of proper organists. . .

On Sundays you’ll see us, we’re part of the team.
But organists aren’t all the same:
While real ones have feet that can dance like a dream,
Pianorganists’ legs just hang lame.

We learned the piano on uprights and grands
And practised for day after day.
That instrument’s easy: one keyboard, two hands –
You sit on the stool, and you play.

The piano keeps both of your arms occupied,
But your feet are left dangling around,
Remote from the action, excitement denied,
Completely ignored, on the ground.

So imagine the terror pianorganists feel
When pressed into organists’ rôles:
Dwarfed by a casework of timber and steel,
A flight-deck array of controls.

If God had meant mortals to play organs, He’d
Have given us ten pairs of hands
And eyes in our feet, for that’s what we need.
I wonder if He understands?

There’s one keyboard up there, another down here,
And often some more in between.
And then you espy, as you tremble with fear,
One more where the floor should have been.

There are stops to the left of you, stops to the right;
And buttons for fingers and feet.
There are couplers and mixtures that fill you with fright
When you hit a bum note off the beat.

So spare us a thought when you catch us out fumbling –
One wrong note can make quite a racket.
This thing has such power; it’s scary and humbling –
But it’s fun when you finally crack it!

[Hoffnung cartoon from www.die-orgelseite.de]
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A touch of class

Ammonites seem to have an air of superiority about them.

I’m glad I am an ammonite,
A most superior clan.
My Ammon’s coily ram-horn shape
Gives me a God-like plan.

My DNA has made me thus:
Its double helix shape
Has got me winding round myself –
A fate I can’t escape.

So I feel I’ve been set apart
From other ocean creatures.
Take nautiloids. They’re less evolved,
With subtly different features:

The siphuncle they’ve got inside
Is central, mine is not;
Their suture patterns curve a bit,
Mine squiggle quite a lot.

I’m better than a belemnite –
They’re dull and rather straight;
I’m so glad I’m an ammonite,
I really am first-rate!

And when I die, I’d like to rest
On Lyme Bay’s stony coast.
Then, when geologists come by,
They’ll see my spiral ghost . . .

[Image: wikipedia]
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Netted

I resisted, but in the end I succumbed . . .


I’m logged on the Net and my modem’s connected,
Its dialog boxes set up as directed,
My e-mails are sent with their grammar corrected,
My search engine’s humming, I’m password-protected.

My head is chock full with the facts I’ve collected –
But what if a downloaded file is infected?
Will it make me unwell? Is a virus suspected?
To dwell on such things could leave one dejected.

So far, it’s been more or less as I expected:
My ambitious aims have not been deflected
And, even though other things have been neglected,
It’s left me nite quormal – bry main’s not affected.

[Cartoon: clipartbest.com]
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The Yanbaru-kuina

The last group of this now-flightless bird lives in the remote highland forests of the Japanese island of Okinawa, fossil records of its successive extinction in islands of the Ryukyu chain to the south having been found in cave sediments. It seems that, once established on one of these originally wooded islands, the bird found it could manage quite well without all the effort of flying. Then Neolithic Man came along, cleared the trees and found the Yanbaru-kuina rather tasty, as the Okinawans still do today. Meanwhile an animatronic Darwin sits in a Japanese museum . . .


This is the tale of a Japanese rail:
Yanbaru-kuina by name.
Although it has wings, it can’t use the darn things –
The museum’s new robot’s to blame.

With smart electronics and animatronics,
Charles Darwin expounds from his chair:
“The fittest will thrive, the rest won’t survive –
It’s ‘use it or lose it’ – beware!”

Though his message was clear, the rails didn’t hear.
When they found a new island, they landed
And simply stopped flying – they just gave up trying
And very soon found they were stranded.

They became easy prey as Man cleared away
The trees on each island in turn
Up the Ryukyu chain. Okinawa’s remain,
All alone. When will Man ever learn?

[Image: tenthousandthingsfromkyoto.blogspot.com]
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Sightless symbiosis

Oxygen – who needs it?


We tube-worms like it hot down on the bottom of the sea,
So hydrothermal vents nearby are just our cup of tea.
We’ve got no mouth or anus, and we haven’t any eyes;
We don’t need light – just microbes that can chemosynthesise.

They live in “feeding bodies” down inside our waving trunks
And put together H2S and CO2 in microchunks
Of real organic matter – CH2O building blocks.
That’s all we need to live on as we sit here on the rocks.

The H2S they get from us; our tentacles extract it
From sea-water that’s round about – it’s easy once you’ve cracked it!
We co-exist: those little bugs just couldn’t live without us.
It’s symbiosis. Now you know what’s so unique about us.

[Photo: oceanexplorer/noaa.gov]
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The oxygen thermometer

I just came across this cunning way of working out what the global temperature levels were in geologically distant times.

Some oxygen is heavy, some oxygen is light,
But both are fine for filling lungs and making things burn bright.
18O’s the weighty one, though in abundance less
Than 16O, the common form. Here’s what you’d never guess:

The ratio between them tells you really quite a lot
About past global temperatures – were summers cold or hot?
Now, oxygen’s in water, which evaporates from the sea;
The light form does so faster – that simple fact’s the key.

And, if it fell as snow on frozen lands in times of old,
It never could have melted if the climate was so cold,
And therefore it would not have run back seawards; so one finds
That sea-water’s enriched in 18O in ice-house times.

Now, creatures living in the seas incorporate some O
As carbonate material in the shells in which they grow.
So those which lived in chillier climes than we have ever seen
Built up their shells from water where more O’s numbered 18.

That’s why our oceanographers extract a lengthy core
Of shelly sea-bed sediments from many miles offshore:
They check for 18O and, if they find it, they conclude
That that bit of the core formed in an icy interlude.

We know by this bizarre but fairly accurate technique,
That twenty thousand years ago the climate was real bleak.
It was a glacial maximum – the last one that we know –
When northern lands were covered all the year with ice and snow.

[Image: i0.wp.com]
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Oyster’s end

We collected three of these on 5 Janary 2000 from where the eastern and western flanks of an anticline expose the Upper Oxford Clay on the beach east of Weymouth. Having first tried digging some fragments out from clay blocks at Furzy Cliff (Jordan’s Cliff), once we’d gone round Redcliff Point fairly intact specimens could be picked up from between larger stones on the beach, where they had ended up after having been washed out of their clayey encasement.


In Upper Oxford strata, Gryphaea dilatata
Lies quite still and doesn’t make a sound.
She’s inside Furzy Cliffs with lots of other stiffs,
All buried several metres underground.

But rock-falls, slumps and slides, and the action of the tides
Contribute to her sense of deep despair;
She sees her die’s well cast when geologists stroll past
Waving hammers, trowels and chisels in the air.

It won’t be long, she knows, before her shell-edge shows,
And that will be her lot – her great demise.
But she feels her soul is still intact, and surely will
Go straight to oyster heaven in the skies.

[Photo: Wikimedia]
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Sue

On 17 May 2000, Chicago’s Field Museum of Natural History revealed the results of their three-year reconstruction of the bones of the largest, best preserved and most complete T.Rex ever found. Named after its discoverer, the skeleton was bought by the museum at auction for $8.36m, largely funded by two well-known US corporations. In this dinosaur’s view of the event, a degree of poetic licence is evident, but most is based on material from its website.

I am a T.Rex – well, I was
But my bones are called “Sue”; that’s because
Susan Hendrickson found them and plastered around them,
Protecting them all against loss.

For eight million dollars or so
They were sold off and propped up on show
In Chicago’s museum; now folks pay to see ’em.
Can you guess who has stumped up the dough?

McDonald’s and Disney, that’s who:
They each get a copy or two
Of my bony remains, so their marketing brains
Can develop new lines. A preview:

T.Rex” burgers, “Sue” cartoons and such;
And, of course, these will soon spawn a clutch
Of toys, games and tacky things, comic strips and wacky things
That adults won’t like very much.

My skull weighs a tonne, to this day.
They examined it every which way
And found my olfactory bulbs satisfactory –
Surprisingly large, so they say.

They dug up my furculum, too:
That’s a wishbone to good folk like you.
Perhaps they think I could fly? I did once have a try –
But wishing was all I could do . . .

Well, I was rather ancient and cronky,
With limb bones all callused and wonky;
And holes in my jawbone (a diseased, and quite sore, bone)
Made my dinosaur roar rather honky.

It’s unsettling, this posthumous fame.
If I had my time over again
I would opt for obscurity and bony security –
Resurrection’s a terrible strain!

[Image: Field Museum, Chicago]
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Geo Supplies

This firm’s catalogue set me thinking . . .


Let us now rhapsodise about Geo Supplies
Who provide geological goodies.
Their catalogue pages you can browse through for ages
Or order, if that’s what your mood is.

The mind simply boggles: there’s helmets and goggles,
Field notebooks, soil augers, cold chisels.
But their bottles of acid are not for the placid –
They’re to test rock to see if it fizzles.

With your hand lens, rock saw and your gold pan, it’s sure
You’ll never become an old dullard;
And if streaking’s your line, then their streak plates are fine
For distinguishing white streaks from coloured.

Rock tumblers they do, grits and polishes, too
If lapidary’s what does it most for you.
They’ve a lapping machine to give rocks a nice sheen
(It’ll take bloomin’ ages and bore you).

Find a fossil, and then with your new vibropen
And your Geo Supplies scratching needle,
You can stay up quite late as you scratch and vibrate,
And you scrape, and you tap, and you twiddle.

Rock specimens, too, they will bag up for you
With a card bearing full explanation.
The catalogue’s spiel makes the claim: “They’re ideal
For pupil experimentation”.

So pupils all over, from Strathclyde to Dover,
Are testing rocks’ less well-known features:
“The Head ought to ban it!” cry school staff, as granite
Gets bounced off the walls and the teachers.

To avoid such surprise from Geo Supplies,
Check their catalogue, be philosophic.
And mind what you do with anything new,
Or the outcome could be catastrophic . . .

(Update: Alas, the printed catalogue is no longer available, but all their latest offerings are at the Geo Supplies website.)

[Image: Geo Supplies]
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Hammer of the South

After my success at Peacehaven (see Poor Doris), I bought a geological hammer from Geo Supplies Ltd. For the briefest of microseconds, as I took it out of the packet, there was a feeling of unbridled power. . .


With this hammer in my hand
I’m a power in the land:
I smash up rocks to get the fossils out.
With my goggles and hard hat,
I go straight to where it’s at –
I’m a geo-vandal now, without a doubt.

If a specimen I spot,
I’m in there like a shot,
My one-pound chisel-end in hot pursuit.
As soon as I have found it,
I get hammering all round it
Hissing: “Just you come out clean, you little brute”.

But if, when it’s detached,
Bits of rock are still attached,
I whack ’em with the blunt end – several hits.
(I wonder if that’s why,
However hard I try,
They always end up on the ground in bits?)

It would be less detrimental
If I’d only be more gentle
As I used to be a little while ago.
But that would spoil the fun.
Look out fossils, here I come!
The end is nigh! Beware the hammer’s blow!

[Photo (of a Professor Schumacher, showing how it should be done): Andreas Neumann (carto.net)]
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Anon

In contrast to archaeologists, who dig great trenches to get at their evidence, geologists rely on nature or quarrymen to open the earth up for them. A hitherto unknown fossil creature pleads to be discovered:


You geologists are lazy –
You wait for things to show.
I wish you’d be proactive
And excavate below.

Stop scratching at the surface,
Go get a JCB
And open up some trenches
Until you unearth me.

I’ve lain around for aeons
Several metres underground
Just suffering compaction,
And waiting to be found.

At current rates of weathering
The sun will be stone cold
Before my re-emergence
As a cast, or complex mould.

There’s nothing going on here;
I’m bored out of my shell.
A bit of action on your part
Would help me bear this hell.

I’m not your average fossil:
There’s only one of me.
I’m quite unknown to science,
Unique in history.

I’m officially anonymous,
So this could be your chance:
Get trenching, get me out of here,
Let palaeontology advance!

[Its plea was unexpectedly answered a few years later – see The hole.]

[Photo: National Science Foundation]
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The meaning of life

If you find this little shell anywhere in the Chalk, you know you’re in a time-specific layer – it’s a zone marker fossil.


Offaster pilula, half an inch on the ruler,
But size is not all, it is said.
You’re a fossilised marker helping sort out the strata,
So your best work is done when you’re dead.

[Photo: nhm.ac.uk]
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Fame

Fossils are often just a few metres under your feet, but there’s no way of telling they’re there unless they become exposed by weathering or quarrying:

He was a unique specimen,
A genus of his own.
His female mates had all died out
And left him quite alone.

But times have changed a lot since then:
Extinctions have occurred.
’Twas many million years ago
His last, faint cry was heard.

Now, many tons of sediment
Have left him looking sorry
And buried deep. His one last hope:
To turn up in a quarry.

If so, he could be famous –
He feels it in his bones.
(“My bones are all that I’ve got left,”
His ghostly voice intones.)

But, if geologists don’t spot
His weathered bits and pieces,
That chance of fame will pass him by
As entropy increases.

He’ll end up in the reject heap,
(Oh, what a tale of woe!)
Disintegrated, crushed and ground.
We can’t let it be so!

So, when you’re out on field trips,
Keep an eye out for our friend;
Then you, too, might be famous
And your name to his append.

[Cartoon: Ayrshire Geography]
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Ravages of time

I’m at an age that Shakespeare missed out . . .


Now, where shall I begin? Ah, yes – this wrinkling of the skin:
It wasn’t half as bad a year ago.
Though I’ve rubbed in creams and potions, slapped on liniments and lotions,
It’s more fragile now, and cracks begin to show.

There’s a problem, too, with memory. Rather like a sheet of emery,
It’s worn down and it’s now well past its prime.
But I haven’t lost my touch, and I’ve not forgotten much –
Just where I’m going, and why, from time to time.

It was more or less all right when small changes in my sight
Could be overcome by squinting both my eyes;
So having to wear glasses to see the board in evening classes
Came as an unsettling surprise.

I’ve been told I should beware slight receding of the hair
And its colour change from black to shades of grey.
(As you lose it from your head, it begins to sprout instead
From ears and nose – well, that’s what people say.)

I cannot understand why prostate glands expand
And obstruct the path of easy urine flow.
“It’s hyperplasic but benign,” says the doctor. “You’ll be fine.
But come back if you find you just can’t go.”

I’m not exactly thick, it’s just my brain is not so quick;
It’s getting worse at thinking in a hurry.
Names to faces I can do: it may take an hour or two,
But I’ll work out who you are, don’t you worry.

I still enjoy a walk, although I creak. And, when I talk,
My patched-up molars give the game away:
A youth mis-spent with sweets and lots of other sticky treats
Has left them in a state of grim decay.

But enough of all this groaning and sad, introspective moaning –
Time to rise above this dismal cavalcade!
Though my eyes are getting dimmer, I’m not ready for a Zimmer!
(Do you know where I can get a hearing aid?)

[Photo: foter.com]
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Gordon’s garden

Slightly exaggerated, this describes one of my problems with field trips: what you do with what you bring back.


I am Gordon’s garden. It’s high time I had my say:
I have a nervous breakdown when he goes out for a day.
I’m usually not religious, but at times like this I pray
That, if he brings back fossils, he won’t chuck them all away.

I’m fed up being just a blooming fossil mausoleum;
He throws away enough old rocks to build a coliseum.
Why doesn’t he display them where his friends can come and see ’em,
Arrange them all in cabinets, or lend to a museum?

My slugs and snails and worms and moles are puzzled by the sight
Of ammonites in Hastings Beds – they know that can’t be right.
There’s brachiopods and bivalves, bits of strange evaporite,
And igneous rocks, and limestones. Oh, and one large coprolite!

It’s not myself I’m thinking of, it’s people who’ll come later:
They’ll fork me over, break me up with spade or cultivator,
And dig up crazy fossil finds, not just the odd potater –
Enough to start a heart attack or blow their dura mater.

How can I stop him doing this? He seems a hopeless case.
Perhaps, if global warming rates begin to gather pace,
The Arun and its feeder streams will flood me and displace
His mixed-up reject fossils to some far more distant place?

Then I could get a life, let my ambitions rip:
Grow cabbages and beans, stop looking like a tip,
Forget this phase he’s going through – maybe it’s just a blip?
I’d be a happy garden then – until his next field trip. . .

(For subsequent developments, see Gordon’s garden, again.)

[Photo (of someone else’s garden!): saga.co.uk
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Time flies

Apparently there were no houseflies in the early Cretaceous period . . .


Why didn’t houseflies pre-date the Cretaceous –
Was evolution just being vexatious?
The answer is obvious to the sagacious:
A shortage of houses! (Or is that fallacious?)

[Image: Wikimedia]
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A lunar aversion module

There’s more to the Moon than meets the eye, according to Tom Patrick, of Mullard Space Sciences Laboratory.

If your life lacks excitement on Earth
And you’re wondering what it’s all worth,
Take a trip to the Moon. You’ll be flying back soon,
For you’re sure to have found there’s a dearth

Of the things you’ve got used to down here,
So many of which don’t appear
When you’re stuck in a mare. The sky is still starry,
But it’s black, for there’s no atmosphere.

There’s no thunder, no lightning, no rain,
And no water eroding the plain.
But do not despair, there are rocks everywhere
For geological folk to explain.

On the Moon, there’s no O2 or C,
Though there’s Al and K, and some P
In the basalt and KREEP, without digging deep.
(What you won’t find is rusting Fe!)

What you will find is armalcolite,
Acronymically named for the flight
Of Neil Armstrong and crew. It’s got iron, Mg too,
Ti4 and O10, bonded tight.

There’s anorthosite (Earth has this rock);
And there’s breccia, welded by shock
From huge impacts that smash up the ground in a flash;
And much else. But now let us take stock:

Who could live without clouds and blue sky,
Without rainbows and seagulls that cry,
Without flowers and bees, or shade-giving trees?
Would you live on the Moon? Nor would I.

[Photo of Edwin ‘Buzz’ Aldrin, Jr: NASA]
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Luvaduck!

Knowing that Dr. Beringer, of Würzburg University, was desperate to amass a collection of Natural Curiosities, two colleagues from Würzburg University, J.Ignatz Roderick, professor of geography, and Georg von Eckhart, a librarian, arranged for him to find or obtain all manner of wondrous “fossils”, subsequently called “Lügensteine” (“lying stones”)

Johann Beringer’s claim to a dubious fame
Is his Lithographiae Wirceburgensis.
It shows, from page one, many pictures that stun
But appear under quite false pretences.

He’d found stones with raised features showing all sorts of creatures
Which Nature, he said, could have made.
If only he’d known that every such stone
Was a dastardly trick being played.

J. I. Roderick and Eckhart, creators of rock art,
So envied our Johann’s good name
That they hatched up a plan that would make the poor man
A laughing stock, covered in shame.

They carved rocks with care and placed them just where
Dr. Beringer surely would find them.
So he thought it good luck when a fine “fossil duck”
Appeared as he followed behind them!

Fossil frogs, he found, too, doing things two by two;
Fossil stars, fossil moon, fossil sun,
Fossil letters spelling “God” in Hebrew! This bod
Gathered things that others would shun.

He just wasn’t fazed: he acquired them, amazed
At these fortunate fruits of his zeal.
He thought his collection was nearing perfection –
Yet most of the items weren’t real.

Did he not understand that supply and demand
Worked to fuel his desire to be famous?
His acceptance of “finds” of weird things of all kinds
Made him look like a sad ignoramus.

But don’t draw a veil over Beringer’s tale
Without noting a side that was finer:
A man of renown, top doc in his town,
Until toppled by these Lügensteine.

[Images: www.zum.de]
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Black smoker

These days, smokers can feel ostracised . . .

I’ve been smoking all me life
And it ain’t done me no harm
I know all about the risks,
But there’s no cause for alarm.

Yeah, I know I look appalling:
All pyritic, hard and vile,
Full of fractures, gnarled and twisted –
Just a foul and sulphurous pile.

It’s so gloomy at these depths
On the ocean floor below;
I don’t s’pose you know I’m here.
I feel ignored, you know.

Come and see me with your robots
If your funding will allow.
But don’t despise us old black smokers –
We’re addicted to it now.

[Photo: wikipedia]
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Agassiz

According to William Buckland, the most recent of Cuvier’s ‘catastrophes’ must have been the Biblical Flood, evidenced by ‘flood deposits’. But a generation after Cuvier came Agassiz (1807–73), whose Alpine experiences convinced him that these ‘flood deposits’ in fact resulted from the gradual action of glaciers.

That legendary son of the Swiss,
Jean Louis Rodlphe Agassiz,
Researched a great deal
For his Poissons Fossiles
And soon became famous for this.

But he’s much better known to us now
For his theory that started a row
With Cuvier, whose ‘floods’
Agassiz said were duds –
It was cold that killed species. Here’s how.

If you visit the Swiss Engadine,
You’ll see glaciers still on the scene.
But they are not static –
If you find an erratic,
You’ll know where past glaciers have been.

So, with U-section valleys all round,
Agassiz was quite sure he’d found
Evidence for an Ice Age
(A cold, and not nice Age)
That had left lots of species ice-bound.

“God’s plough’s been at work,” he would say
In his anti-Darwinian way.
Then Jean Louis’ ambitions
For well-funded positions
Led to Harvard in US of A.

As a Prof., and although getting older,
His labours for science got bolder.
But then, one sad day
Jean Louis passed away.
On his grave is a Swiss granite boulder . . .

[Photo: wikipedia]
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Granite – a tor story

If ‘hot’ rocks appear tough, it may be because of a difficult childhood:


My appearance is coarse and my manner intrusive –
My upbringing’s largely to blame:
A childhood as magma just isn’t conducive
To getting oneself a good name.

My youth was mis-spent: you can see all around
All the rocks that I’ve metamorphosed.
They’re visible now: they were underground,
But the weather has left them exposed.

I’ve cooled off as I’ve aged, though it’s taken forever;
Now all of my crystals display
Their shapes on my surface. It’s now my endeavour
To slow down their rate of decay.

Up here on the moor, all alone with my thoughts,
I feel that I’m cracking up fast . . .
I’m breaking down into clay minerals and quartz . . .
I reckon . . . this line . . . is my last . . .

[Photo: UK National Education Network]
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Feet of clay

We went to two Gloucestershire quarries, at Shorncote and Latton, on 27 November 1999, where you could pick fossil shells off the exposed Oxford Clay. Complete with new hard hats and bright yellow jackets, we got our eye in at Shorncote, then had lunch in the car park of the Cotswolds Water Park. Then we walked round the corner into the Latton quarry . . .

With high-vis vest and tough hard hat on
We scoured the gravel pits at Latton.
Old Father Thames once flowed that way
And left behind his load of clay

In ’98 the quarrymen
Exposed it to the sun again
With many sorts of fossil shell
And, some say, mammoth teeth as well.

Whilst finding shells to extricate
And musing on that mammoth’s fate,
A certain lady member found
A likely answer in the ground.

(The clay was sticky, grey and cloggy,
And recent rain had made parts boggy,
Its particles all fluidising.)
What happened next is not surprising:

Her left foot stuck . . . her right foot more so . . .
The mud had nearly reached her torso. . .
(Her chin might follow, then nose, then eyes –
Eventually, she’d fossilise . . .)

But rescue was at hand to yank,
With clay-filled boots and socks that stank,
Our heroine from Nature’s clasp
Ere she should utter her last gasp.

And that explained the mammoth’s end:
He’d been out fossiling with a friend
When it had rained the night before.
They sank in mud . . . and were no more.

[Image: cryptomundo.com]
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Rock doc

A seam of sedimentary rock, having lain quietly beneath tons of overlying strata for megayears, begins to feel a little feverish. Not realising that hot granite is rising nearby, she consults her medical advisor. . .


Oh doctor, I’m under such pressure,
And this heat isn’t good for my health.
I seem to have lost my composure –
I feel I’m not really myself.

“I’ll just check your geological records . . .
I see you’re confined to your bed,
And have been for aeons. I reckon
You’ve brought this upon your own head.”

Yes, I know my life’s quite sedimentary.
It’s not how I want it to be,
And maybe I should have got out more.
Doc, what is the matter with me?

“Is there someone you’re getting too close to?
Tell me, is Hot Granite involved?
Yes? I thought so! And, by your admission,
I think that the problem is solved.

I note you’re developing cleavage,
And your grains show a crystalline trend;
You’ve got chronic metamorphism –
There’s no cure for that illness, my friend.”

So what’s the prognosis then, doctor?
Have I very much longer to go?
“My dear girl, you’ll go on for ever –
You just have to go with the flow.

In an era or two, you’ll be stronger
And you’ll see just how gneissly you’ve changed.
There’s just one tiny thing: I should warn you,
Your atoms may get rearranged.”

[Cartoon: clipartmag.com]
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Gordon’s garden again

As part of a long-overdue redesign of our garden, I dug some trenches to drain the lawn, and others to take the footings of dwarf walls. To my surprise, I found some interesting bits of Upper Tunbridge Wells Sand, but I sensed that my garden still didn’t share my enthusiasm (see Gordon’s garden).

I am Gordon’s garden, and although I had my say,
He’s taken not a scrap of notice, gone his own sweet way.
Not satisfied with dumping stuff he’s brought from far away,
He’s recently been eyeing me in quite a different way.

He’d noticed how my lawn becomes so boggy when there’s rain,
And dug a string of trenches filled with gravel so they drain.
(It’s ruined my appearance. Oh, he really is a pain!)
But what he found took me aback – perhaps I’d best explain.

For as he dug, he came across a sandstone block or two.
I saw him get his hand-lens out to get a closer view.
He looked at them . . . he looked at me . . . and all at once I knew
He wouldn’t stop at drainage trenches. Help! What could I do?

And, sure enough, he came with spade and shovel in his hand,
And devastated even more of my once-virgin land.
He claimed it was for footings, that the whole thing was pre-planned.
Pre-planned, my foot. Such wilful desecration should be banned.

He says I’ll look much nicer when he’s dug a little more.
He says his stone is ripple-marked and shows how, long before,
My ancestors had lazed around upon some wave-kissed shore.
Oh no! I bet he’ll dig until he finds a dinosaur . . .

Well, I am Gordon’s garden, and it’s time for me to say
That up with this I will not put. That’s it. No more, okay?
I have a secret weapon: when it’s wet, it’s sticky grey;
But when his drains dry out my soil, it’s hard, rock-solid clay !

[Photo: freepik]
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