WoW! Hot off the presses - more contributions from our publication.

 

 

 

Broom

 

                            Broom

Pale 
   Golden                         Pollen
                              Purses
Sweet
                      Sickly         
                                      Perfume
                Caressing
Warm
                Gentle  
                                   Sea   
                                       Breezes
Swirling
                                Swaying
Sweeping                            
                            Broom.

Anne Ward

 

 

Garstang’s Ophelia

In a twisting of the tumbling Wyre

inspirited by April showers,

between steep banks of cicely

smelling of aniseed and myrrh,

lies swollen Ophelia tangled in willow,

the river her bed, its ripples her pillow.
 

Romance brought low by poverty,

her melancholy prince, sad suitor,

set sail on Wyre tide, New Worlds to discover.

She wove forget-me-nots into a lover’s favour,

and cried hot tears to see him go,

quick with the child he’d never know.
 

Swallows skim now across her liquid grave,

wild ramson bows its head above the flow.

Her honeyed tresses look almost alive

in this rolling rinse of rusty peat water,

swirling in eddies - as if she’s trying to break free

to follow her Hamlet down Wyre to the sea.

Steve Rowland

 

 

 

 

Muddy Lass

Slimy soft and slippery,

yet still she dips her toes,

and paddles to the other bank,

the trusty Wyre Rose.

Ami Noone

 

 

Beyond the cabin door

Metallic blackness unwinds, revealing sea and shore.

Salt watercolour seeps into sleepy eyes.

Soft powder blue, a wash of endless sky,

Shot with sugar arrows to the tip of Morecambe Bay.

Copper sand rolls in like cool carpet at my feet,

strewn with pebble voyagers and

crumpled lager can, clutter of the night,

invading gull kissed walkway of the day.  
 

Settling on rocks that pier into the surf,

unexpected touch brings voices.

Windermere days of burning coal and whistling steam,

Brasso, pink on copper kettle,

and the port and starboard lamps.

Crimson swirling into crystal water,

Seeping out of crescent scar an inch above my heel,

sliced open on the slimy rocks at Wray.   
 

Beyond the wind farm ranks,

a distant boat, bobs like a bath toy,

in shadow lands between the sky and sea.

On shore, the stone hewn ogre of the deep

groans,  longing for his precious stranded shell.

Sea breath billows into winter lungs

and we rise to share the spray at water’s edge,

bursting into waves of carefree dance.

Adele V Robinson