Thank you for taking the time to have a look at my latest poetry collection. This month I have a real mix for you ranging from a medieval tower in sleepy Paull to a fiery sunset at the birthplace of two of the gunpowder plotters. I hope you enjoy what I have to share.
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I was inspired to write the first three poems after taking a stroll around Victoria Pier in Hull the other week. The Humber was drenched in weak afternoon sunshine, casting a beautiful glow over the river and the many flower boxes filled with colourful primroses sparked my imagination into life.
Stark grey clouds,
Puffs of pewter smoke
Slowly evaporate
The tears and pain
Of stormy seas
Replaced by
The laughter
Of gentle waves.
The golden sun
Casts a magical glow
Over the ripples below.
Insignificant, lost,
A silhouette boat
Drifts back on
Course and
Finds a way home.
Pink is passion,
Pink is bold,
Pink is a flower
With a heart of gold.
Pink is vibrant,
Pink is alive,
Pink is a glow
When I close my eyes.
Pink is for ever,
Pink is sincere,
Pink is a dancer
In a primrose dream.
A splash of bright paint
On a canvas of green,
No insipid shades
Flamboyant and free.
Matte kaleidoscope,
Cool purple haze,
Layered yet smooth,
Rotating clock face.
The sun shines out of
Her primrose heart,
A bright yellow chorus
Is singing out loud.
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The next poem was written about a historic building at one of my favourite places (in the whole world) - Paull in East Yorkshire. Paull Holme Tower is all that remains of a 15th century manor house once owned by the Holme family.
I found this interesting video showing you up close views of the tower. It is absolutely fascinating!
I found this interesting video showing you up close views of the tower. It is absolutely fascinating!
Standing proud on a rugged hill
The tower is all that remains,
You were once the centrepiece
Of a grand medieval estate.
You were never intended to be alone
All around you could not be saved.
The sun lights up terracotta bricks
A reminder of your glory days.
As I close my eyes I picture your moat,
Swirling round you, keeping you safe.
I wonder who walked through your doors,
Warmed their hands by your fire place.
You were never intended to be alone
All around you could not be saved.
The sun lights up terracotta bricks
A reminder of your glory days.
As I close my eyes I picture your moat,
Swirling round you, keeping you safe.
I wonder who walked through your doors,
Warmed their hands by your fire place.
I wonder what battles you survived,
Who watched you from afar?
Who looked through your ornate windows
As the moon danced beside the stars?
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The sleepy little village of Welwick is another remote spot on the banks of the Humber. I was drawn towards taking a drive there several weeks ago when I noticed a fiery sunset materialising.
An interesting fact about Welwick is it was the birthplace of two of the gunpowder plotters - John and Kit Wright. A sculpture was unveiled in 2013 near to the farm where the brothers were raised commemorating the village's links to this historic event.
Descending darkness
wraps a cloak around
decreasing shadows,
dissolving clouds.
Slippery hillside,
a haphapzard fence,
like an African plain,
stark silhouettes
against a backdrop
of blazing sky.
Awake or dreaming
new horizons defined.
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wraps a cloak around
decreasing shadows,
dissolving clouds.
Slippery hillside,
a haphapzard fence,
like an African plain,
stark silhouettes
against a backdrop
of blazing sky.
Awake or dreaming
new horizons defined.
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Spurn Point is a truly unique and amazing place. When you spend most of your time in built up areas it is easy to forget we live on an island here in the UK. A visit to Spurn most certainly brings everything back into perspective.
Where the ripples
of the river
meet the rushing,
crashing sea
and gently
bubbling mud flats
meet a sandy
pebbled beach.
One story ends,
another starts,
wiry grass
waves goodbye
as the endless splashing waves
mirror the
colours of the sky.
Remnants of a concrete bunker,
lonely war time hideaway,
echoes of brave
soldiers' voices
whispers carried
by the waves.
Lonely lighthouse
standing proud,
guiding light
and sailor's friend.
Surrounded by
the changing tides,
windswept jutting
island end.
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No poetry collection of mine would be complete without a little verse inspired by the flowers in my garden. When I saw a clump of Christmas roses bowing their heads I immediately felt compelled to put pen to paper.
As you lift
your unsure head
I see delicate
lines of pain
etched into
the paper thin folds
of your pale
and fragile face.
Open your heart
and speak to me
in a whisper,
an echo, a song.
Don't be afraid
to raise your head
you've been hiding
for too long.
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The final poem in this collection was written after a walk on the beach at Withernsea.
The tide is slowly retreating,
Distant lapping, foaming waves,
Revealing a vast deserted beach
In shades of sand and beige.
Glinting in the weak sunshine
In a basin of water and coal,
Outlined by reflected shadows,
An explosion of colourful stones.
I see hints of ruby claret,
Emerald green and sapphire blue,
Interspersed with mottled garnet,
Tones of garnet peeping through.
Haphazardly positioned,
Coloured rocks upon the beach,
Irregular, multi-faceted
Waiting for the kiss of the sea.
