Writings and Witterings



Frost surprises
on fewer mornings
beneath the clearest blue sky.
A mirror to springtime
in a slew of white
feathered streaks.

The birds cheep, excited,
trees are in bud; sticky buds
give way to unfurling green.
Cyclamen leaves peek.

The lambs shout to their ma’s,
and soft, soft, the
wood pigeon coos.

Oh, and the daffodils,
the daffodils,
the glorious yellow trumpeting

As my tea steams
in the chill morning air,
I look around
and beam,
at work
to begin.


Polly Robinson © 2014

Photo from imagerail.com

Photo from imagerail.com


Flaxy Wings

Sprout wings, flaxy wings,
sparkle in the sunshine wings,
taut tensile gossamer
gentle and edged in springtime green.

Then, fly from hilltop
to hilltop marking
wayside stones and bones;
flit through tall and towering trees,
as a fresh damply morning
chuckles the nose.

The dew glints
as we skim archaic tracks.

Polly Robinson © 2014

dewy grass


Love Bites

I had to be an optimist
happy through and through
to perpetually smile
and swing along with you
what times we had
some good times glowing bright and new
remnant embers shining
with sultry amber hue.

Remember the embers?
the soft and sultry glow?
Now crunch along life’s ashy path
mind how the cinders blow
they’ll cut your eyes and make them bleed
for love has teeth that bite
these wounds will never ever heal
there are no words to help congeal
or close those cold love bites.

Polly Robinson © 1989

Published in On the Words of Love (Brian Wrixton & Poets with Voices Strong, 2012)


Saint Patrick

On St Patrick’s Day – a poem for Mike and all my Irish friends.

shamrockSaint Patrick

Calpurnius and Conchessa
had a little boy
who was captured
aged just fourteen.
They took him to Ireland
to herd and tend sheep
in a land of Druids and pagans.

He prayed hundreds of prayers
’til a voice said to him,
‘Go to the coast, my son.’
He found sailors
who let him board their ship
a man returned
to his Scottish home.

But he dreamt of Ireland
the people there called,
‘We beg you to come back to us.’

Ordained a bishop
he went back to Slane,
travelled all Ireland,
did his best to explain
the trinity
through the shamrock.
His stick grew into a tree.
‘Tis said snakes were banished by he.

Polly Robinson © 2014