March Strolls

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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!

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.

I wonder what battles you survived,

Who watched you from afar?

Who looked through your ornate windows

As the moon danced beside the stars?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Follow@jillwebbwords