Fog
As I walk along the coastal road, to the neighbouring bay,
A curtain of thick fog suddenly comes swirling my way.
Through the dense haze, I can spot the odd car headlight,
But everything else is now completely hidden from sight.
With my journey, I decide it isn’t wise to carry on,
As my sense of direction has now completely gone.
I begin to retrace my footsteps back towards the town,
Unable to believe how quickly the fog has come down.
With familiar sights now totally obscured from view,
I feel a little bit lost, and, I admit, a little anxious too.
All around me, there is a dense veil of consuming whiteness,
But it is tinged with a gloomy grey, so there is no brightness.
I spotted the fog earlier, obscuring the nearby hilltops,
But, I carried on, assuming that’s where it would stop.
But the fog came tumbling down, on to the land below;
There wasn’t any nook or cranny, where the fog didn’t go.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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From An Ant...
For my colony, I am the explorer scout;
I am sent on ahead, to sniff things out.
When I've found something tasty to eat,
Back to the nest, I beat a hasty retreat.
I inform the others of what I have found,
Then one by one, we climb above ground.
Being a scout is a dangerous occupation;
It takes a lot of guts, and sheer dedication.
Unfortunately, not everyone makes it back;
Some get squashed dead within their tracks.
If humans saw us as creatures, who are living,
Maybe they would be a little more forgiving.
Searching for food is our main passion;
We set about it in a most orderly fashion.
Any foodstuffs which are sticky and sweet,
Are among our very favourite treats to eat.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Living Leaves
The leaves seem to take on a life of their own,
As, along the ground, they’re bounced and blown.
They run rings around my rapidly pacing feet;
Pulsating, moving, as if dancing to a musical beat.
Along the ground, the leaves skip and skitter,
As they’re blown around by the wind so bitter.
Each other, they sometimes appear to chase,
As they run around, with such a great haste.
With me, the leaves seem to be playing a game,
But they are very boisterous, and not at all tame.
Devoid of moisture, they’re as light as a feather,
And are lifted effortlessly, in this windy weather.
Some of them take flight through the air like kites;
Often soaring up to the most remarkable heights.
They zoom all around: so much higher than me;
Seemingly thrilled that, at last, they’re finally free.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Like A Cyberman
What must it be like to live life like a Cyberman:
Living a soulless existence, inside an old tin can?
You would spend each and every single day,
Walking, here and there, in a regimented way.
You would never ever feel either happy or sad,
Or know when life is going either good or bad.
You would just look on, when somebody cries.
You wouldn’t feel any grief, when someone dies.
In other’s eyes, you would see dread and fear,
And you would never ever hold someone near.
You would never hold somebody’s warm hand.
People’s feelings, you would never understand.
You wouldn’t have a brain, in order to think.
You’d just stare straight ahead: unable to blink.
Your voice would be monotone: you’d use no inflections,
And for people and animals, you would feel no affection.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Katie: The Cocker Spaniel
With her caramel fur, and long, floppy ears,
Seeing Katie go for her walk, brings me cheer.
Away from her mistress, she excitedly bolts;
Over neighbour’s fences, she effortlessly vaults.
Sniffing around, here and there, she loves to explore;
Despite having travelled this path, many times before.
Whether she’s out on a sunny day, or in a force ten gale,
She’s guaranteed to be happy, and have a very waggy tail.
Still only a few years old, she appears to have endless energy.
There are so many things in life, for her curious eyes to see.
Full of the joys of spring, she rushes around all over the place;
If dogs could smile, then she’d definitely have one on her face!
Let off of her lead, she darts off, and is, very soon, gone,
But she returns to her strolling mistress, to beckon her on.
She really loves to go for her twice daily walks;
To other dog owners, her mistress often talks.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Unwanted
Handbags and purses which have a dodgy zip.
An old china mug with a massive great chip.
Clothes which are now all bobbled and holed,
With their colours faded, where once they were bold.
New clothes unworn, which are still in their pack,
And others, fresh off the rail, with labels still attached.
A skirt which is old and no longer quite fits.
T-shirts with sweat patches under the arm pits!
But expensive designer wear is given away too.
Books, which are still in the chart, they're so new,
While others are discoloured and all dog-eared;
All topics are covered: the wonderful and weird.
Shoes with their heels all scuffed and worn down.
Belts, whose owner's waists, they now won't fit round.
Double CDs, which are missing one of their discs.
Jigsaw puzzles, which have one of their pieces amiss.
Fluffy, soft toys, which are still sporting their tags.
Old Queen Elizabeth II coronation souvenir mags.
Ornate and plain vases made of pottery or glass.
All types of jewellery - the array is so vast.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Darkness Falls
A blackbird utters its warning call,
As, slowly, darkness begins to fall.
The temperature grows steadily colder,
As the day grows steadily older.
In the houses, lights are being put on,
Now that daylight has almost gone.
Shift workers head out into the night,
While most of us are snuggled up tight.
People head to town for an evening out:
Laughter is heard, as is the odd distant shout.
Cats come out to search and stalk their prey:
Woe betide the creature who steps in their way.
Ducks settle down: Head under their wing.
Small birds have roosted and no longer sing.
Moths flit to and fro around a light.
Bats whizz by silently in their flight.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Snow
The poor ducks paddle in the partially frozen pond.
Farmers’ fields are covered with thick snow beyond.
Bewildered sheep, keep warm in their thick woolly coats.
On toboggans, cheerful children slide down slippery slopes.
Insects and fallen fruit are suddenly nowhere to be found,
By birds and animals, who forage for food upon the ground.
Kindly householders throw out cake crumbs for the birds,
But among the mammals, murmurs of discontent are heard.
Everywhere in sight is decorated with a thick layer of snow;
The world all about, is now either at a stop, or on a go-slow.
Cars slowly wind their way down the narrow country lanes.
The day sees dozens of delays on the slowly running trains.
Delayed or cancelled, are the large fleets of local buses.
In this weather, the whole world crawls: it never rushes.
Drivers furiously scrape clean their frozen windscreens,
Impatient for this world of white to turn back into green.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Keep Talking
Citizens of the world, to you, I now do beseech,
Whatever happened to good old fashioned speech?
Now, we all seem to communicate with our fingers,
So that, no longer, in the air, do any spoken sounds linger.
If we talk to each other, face to face or on a telephone,
We can detect colour in speech and variations in tone.
We rely too much on electronic communication, but
If electricity and mobile phone networks were ever cut,
To us, the world around us, would suddenly fall apart,
And, with regards to communication, we’d be back at the start.
We would have to revert to the communication system of old,
With news and views, to each other, now being, personally, told.
Speaking to each other in person, is a pretty sure fire way
To ensure important information doesn’t get lost along the way.
You’ve probably had someone send you an email, that you didn’t get,
And you probably have undelivered text messages somewhere, I bet!
The idea that, to each other, we should actually speak,
Is one which, nowadays, seems considered rather antique.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Green Fingers
People have gardens, both large and small,
Whilst flat dwellers have no garden at all.
Some people love to surround their homes
With comical-looking, little garden gnomes.
A few gardens boast fantastic water-features,
Or a large array of stone, woodland creatures.
To make their garden nice, some folk really do try,
Whilst other gardens really are a sight for sore eyes.
Some folk really wish their garden was just not there,
And, about them, they, very obviously, just do not care.
Without a garden, some people would feel really lost,
And they keep them looking nice, whatever the cost.
Some people are blessed: they have green fingers,
And, in their gardens, for hours, they love to linger.
When some people pull on their gardening gloves,
They tend their gardens with such heartfelt love.
People love to spend their time sowing seeds,
Trimming their hedges, and pulling up weeds.
Some tend flower beds, upon bended knee.
Some grow delicious fruit upon their trees.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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