Writings and Witterings


No Creosote

In the potting shed
the scent of ancient creosote
wafts in heavy summer heat.
Years of grandpa, pipe in mouth,
leaning against the wall as
grandma wielded the black
brush and yelled,

‘Get back you

followed by her gap-tooth grin.
She lives within the still-
standing walls …
no creosote


Polly Robinson © 2014

Potting shed



I’ve revised one of my favourite poems, first written in 2011 this is the latest version.

My Sweet Rose (or The Soul of the Rose) John William Waterhouse

My Sweet Rose (or The Soul of the Rose)
John William Waterhouse


Radiant beauty,
goddess of the spring,
scent of the rose
against your brow’s wing;
fertile maid of life… and of death.

She meanders in meadows
of fragrant flowers,
roses, violets, hyacinths in bowers.
She’s seized, snatched,
carried off;
stolen by Hades
in a golden

And Demeter weeps.

Odysseus at the House of Death
sees a wraith
to make one ache.

becomes the curse of dead souls.
Men distrust her six months here,
six months there.

It is said:
“This is no deception sent by Queen Persephone,
this is the way of mortals when we die.”

Feel the horror queen’s light breath.

But wait!
A kindness yet,
to let the souls return.

Springtime Goddess of Rebirth -
mystery initiations -
sudden depressions give way to the mysteries,
a better life,
a different fate after death.

Repeat to the beginning,
seeds of the fruits
of the field.
All shall return.

She is the painted winecup,
she is: life and death,
wife, daughter,
innocence, wisdom,
death and rebirth.

And she stole the beautiful Adonis!
Oh yes!  A psychopomp…
with pomegranate seeds

and blessings
for wisdom and tranquillity.

is not evil
’tis a cycle
for good.

Polly Robinson © 2014



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


The Journey

Riding from far North they came
through snow and sleet and sheeting rain.
Ice formed behind them, frosted, cracked
red dragon scales, in parts, looked blacked.
On wings sheer clipped, their fire breath quenched,
onward, moving South, they went.

Flying ahead of the sunset West:
werewolves; sprites in fiery vests;
pixies pointing ears to learn
where coal black jackdaws crash and burn.
There is no place to hide.

Then from the sunrise in the East
the faerie queen on bounding beast
the size of which sees grown elves weep.
They hear her voice so light (though deep)
control the slavering ride.

Inch by inch from the dry drought South
carrying dead sheep in its mouth
the Kraken, skin scabbed, wracked and ripped
scouts for the havering hare who nips
at the frail fingers of sylvan wamblers.

Polly Robinson © 2014


Not Guilty

There are no guilty men in gaol,
to comprehend what they go through:
they are misunderstood; we fail
to see them as like me and you.
We can’t imagine why they strayed,
they say, I quote, ‘Not me at all.’
Don’t own the error of their ways,
to them we live in cloudy pall.
These innocents have done no wrong,
they give reasons for all they did.
We others sing another song.
They want to show they did no wrong.

Polly Robinson © 2014

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Rotary District 1100 Conference 2014

District Governor Jan Harris held an outstanding conference in Bournemouth last weekend. I was privileged to be asked to co-host the ‘Oscars’ evening, when Jan acknowledged district members who have worked so hard with her throughout the Rotary year.

We had a fabulous evening, and as you can see, I was surrounded by handsome men – Oscar and Oliver ;)



Girl’s Got Rhythm – have you got yours yet?

Spring is here and my first collection of poetry, Girl’s Got Rhythm, starts with a Triversan about lambs, they’re so lovely.

It’s even easier to get your copy now. Just use the PayPal button and it will be put in the post the very next day. Hope you enjoy it.

btn_buynowCC_LGAlso available via Amazon. Print version. eBook.

Girl's Got Rhythm Front Cover



I am solo
yet one of two
I am separate
yet one of four
I am individual
yet one of sixty-three
I am unique
yet one of ninety-four thousand
I am different
yet one of sixty-two million three hundred thousand
I am inimitable
yet one of seven billion
‘No man is an island’*
I am me

*John Donne (1572-1631)


Polly Robinson © 2014


Shrive Shrove

From recycledevon.org

From recycledevon.org

Shrove Tuesday
comes before
Ash Wednesday
the start of Lent.
Eat up the milk
butter, eggs
before the
fasting of
Penitence in
No luxuries in
Give it all up

Polly Robinson © 2014


Vacant Possession

A time to treasure
an hour to think
a precious, golden
chain of links.

Glossy glisters gleam
on freshly cleaned
carpets and cupboards
all pristine.

Moments of calm
with a hot cup of tea,
my home to myself,
read and write poetry.

Polly Robinson © 2014


french watch

The photo below is of the picture that inspired ‘french watch.’ It hangs in The Osborne Room at The Royal Clifton Hotel in Southport and was kindly photographed and sent to me by email. I went to an OU Poets weekend last year and my poem was inspired by one of the workshops.

Artist unknown

Artist unknown

french watch

he sees formal french
or a prussian
blue sea
sees an armada
of silky sailboats
on smooth duvet water
watched by foreign
friends seated
or standing
on soft silver sand
in their sunday best

Polly Robinson © 2013



Still working on a this one – your thoughts welcomed.


To those
who perpetuate the pain
of their blue touch-paper power.
Those who are wired
and can’t resist
their hot and hopeful passions.
Those who rewrite history
to show themselves
in the best of lights.
The narcissists who will not fight,
yet fall witless
into a sparky partner’s life.
They drip with sweat,
illumine the night,
feast on fear,
grin white at the gullible
tongue out for the taste of trust.

To ego-tripsters,
attention seekers
who ignore fleshy desires to cruelly deny the other.
Base deceivers,
They think their charm and smarm
will calm the gentlest voice.

They jolt,
they interject
to project;
don’t know how to reflect,
relish neglect.

They idly promise to share,
then make life-ensnaring love
change what they once professed to love.

A positive charge.
A crash of thunder.
The storm smashes, claps,
tempests collide.

Polly Robinson © 2014

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Lindsay’s blog

I was chuffed to bits to be asked why I write by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn for her series of the same title. To see my response, follow this link to her blog – do leave a comment – it was a lovely thing to be asked about :)