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

Birdsong 

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

Penultimate pieces from the project:

Walking Upstream

Look to your right as we pass

Notice the tidal wash on the grass -

The dried remains of last week’s high tide

Now exposed to sun and wind.

A twig brought down in a recent gale

From far upstream, beyond the wave’s ride,

Wind-blown blossom lost its vibrant colour,

All now golden brown,

Soon to be absorbed into the ground

Gone until the next high tide.

 

Look to your right as we pass by.

Notice the tree roots high and dry,

Twisted into poetic shapes unsculpted,

Raw, not meant to see the light.

A roosting place for a nesting wren

Taking a chance on the vagaries of the tide.

A climbing frame for an eager toddler

Learning to be brave.

Pity now the tree roots left naked and bare,

Waiting, waiting for the next high tide. 

Kathleen Curtiss

Hunting

A path of moonlight flows to the sea

black like soft pillows bordering

Two dots of light dance

like fireflies in the dark

stopping to focus on sand below

a curse as metal strikes metal

torches dropped in the sand

the treasure is not worms tonight.

 

Lindsay Mulholland

Old Weather Tales

On Wyre river bank,

ancient weinds pave down to water’s edge,

A crooked ash is tipped by breeze,

to trail her pink bud fingers

through mountain gathered flow.

She rises late this spring,

her oak companion, already in full show.

Old weather tales predict Summer

fragrant  as the sweet wild rose

diffused in solar haze.







 

The farmer’s child interprets portents.

“Ash in leaf before the oak predicts an earth bound soak.

Yet oak so green before the ash, will only bring a splash.”

I see the hawthorn,

buxom with a bloom like fallen snow.

Another sooth I know.

Abundant blossom brings a russet

Autumn store

for bird life.

Old weather tales foretell

that childhood seasons find reprise.

Summer dry but Winter freeze. 

Adele V Robinson



 

Silt and Roses

Less than a lifetime ago

where Wyre and Irish Sea commingled,

waves washed right up to the esplanade

splashing those who strode atop

with surprises of spray. 

The brief passage of time

has wrought a subtle coastal change;

and now a strand of silt and shingle

on which wild roses grow

interposes between the promenader

and Fleetwood’s estuarine flow.

Steve Rowland