Friday, 12 September 2014

Last Post...the final four poems!

We Sheep
Gurgling, burpy bleats
Lolling sloppily from the
Green endangered throats.

Heather Taylor

Kiss  Me  Quick
Hey  look  at  me  all  drenched  and  wet
Oh   forgot  you  haven’t  met  me   yet
I   was  left  behind  on  this   wrought  iron  bench
By  that  bleached  blonde  wench
I  was  so  glamorous  when  new
Glittering  pink,  edged  with  cream  feathers
And  a  ribbon  of  blue
She  was  in  awe  of  my  silken  rim
When  she  and  her  pals  were  swilling  the  gin
They  hugged  and  kissed
Cackled  with  laughter  and  danced  the  twist
I  was  placed  aside
But  I  couldn’t  hide
I  craved  the  calmness  of  the  tide
“Here  let  me  try  it  on!”   was  the  cry
I  wanted  to  curl  up  and  die
My  novelty  worn  off
The  night  club  closed
She  wondered  on  the  prom,  concrete, sand  and  sea  tickling  her  toes
In  her  sleepy  state
She  watched  the  fisher  men  dig  for  bait
Enfolded  by  the  damp  sea  mist
She  staggered  away,  shoes  in  hand,  sparkly  bracelets  on  her  wrist
Leaving  me  here  for  the  next  misplaced  tourist.
Anne Ward


Black Angus heifers paddling in the Wyre,
St Peter’s spire and Nicky Nook
brush stroke a pastoral scene.
A landscape from the past,
lacking only country folk and horse-drawn wain.

Ripples circle outwards from hoofs in the
shallow ford between two luscious,
green- mile fields.
They lap contented at the  tea-stained water
as it slugs along the Martin-pitted slopes.

Nesting  birds dash in and out,
bank left, then right,
fly-catching on the wing,
sky ballerinas in sweet Summer rain.

Today they will not sing their freedom in the sky;
will not mock the beef- boys happy with their lot.
They see the pock-marked soil,
over-flowing with rose-tinted rain
and offer only birdsong in their wake.

Adele V Robinson

Stalking Stanah Saltmarsh Blues

Well I woke up this morning
a memory in mind,
you, soft hipped and glorious,
sweet kissing kind -
but my reed bed was empty
so lust ebbed away…
oh mama, I’ve got them old
saltmarsh blues today.

I stalked you to Stanah
by the widening Wyre,
whose muddy shore ciphers
proclaimed you a liar -
all blue-eyed and blowsy
left soft by the fray…
oh mama, these saltmarsh blues
quite blow me away.

We talked of zonation
like estuarine hex lines,
how time changes everything,
mutating love-signs.
It’s tilting at windmills,
keeping sadness  at bay…
oh mama, we’ve all got
our saltmarsh dues to pay.

Steve Rowland


  1. Adele, thank you for your immense dedication and enthusiasm in organising and running this project. It has been a pleasure to be involved, to see and hear so much fantastic writing being produced out of the Walking on Wyre experience.

    1. Thanks Steve. I am very pleased that so many took part and have had the experience of a published piece. Congratulations to all of you.


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