When The Clocks Go Back
I dread the day, when the clocks go back;
Of daylight hours, there’s now a real lack.
I wish that, like some animals, we could hibernate,
As winter is a time of year, which I don’t highly rate.
At six o’clock, in the summer, it was still really very light,
But the same time, in winter, feels like the dead of night.
Once it gets dark, it suddenly feels really late,
And, these are the days, which I really hate.
There are a few winter events, on which, I’m keen,
Such as, Christmas, Bonfire Night, and Halloween.
But, for me, winter is just a season, to be got through;
It’s hard to keep myself from feeling down and blue.
My system begins to feel rather sluggish and slow,
As everything around me, loses its once golden glow.
Unlike, in the summer, when you feel at your best,
In winter, it’s all too easy, to lose some of your zest.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Ladies' Walk
As children, we loved to go to Ladies’ Walk, if the weather was fine.
The Walk, itself, was situated at the top of town, atop a gentle incline.
To us, as children, the Walk seemed to stretch onwards, for many a mile;
It seemed to us, with our little legs, to be as long as the mighty River Nile.
The earthen path was covered by a canopy of tall, towering trees.
Aromas from the world of nature wafted upon the gentle breeze.
On either side, there were large fields, where horses often grazed.
From vantage points, down upon the town, we would stop and gaze.
My brother and I would often play a game of Hide ‘n’ Seek;
From out of behind the tall trees, we took it in turns, to peek.
We loved to collect conkers; I loved their smooth, shiny shells.
I was blown away by the patches of pretty, blossoming bluebells.
Often, I would find sheep’s wool, caught on the fence of barbed wire;
Of collecting nature’s trinkets and treasures, I never ever seemed to tire.
The tall trees had been there for many a year; some sported ivy-clad bark.
Some were etched with initials and hearts, where lovers had left their mark.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Storyteller's Word
In a decent book, I can lose myself,
For, at least, a good couple of hours.
A well told story, for young or old,
My mind will quite hungrily devour.
I’ve always loved a real page turner:
A story, which, is totally compelling.
Sometimes, there’s a story, true or invented,
Which, simply, deserves, and needs telling.
Sometimes, a person in a book,
To me, can feel like a true friend;
You share their life and adventures,
And feel rather sad, when it all ends.
A story can stir up a mixture of emotions:
I’ve cried tears, and gasped with surprise.
I’ve found myself completely captivated,
As a story unfolds before my very eyes.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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At the Stage Door
My friend and I had a memorable day,
When we went to see a favourite star in a play.
A week beforehand, we sent her a letter,
But this did not make our meeting any better.
At the end of the show,
Round to the stage door, we did go.
For a short while, we hung about,
Waiting for her to come out.
Soon enough, we saw,
Her exit the stage door.
Up to her, we cautiously went,
And mentioned the letter which we’d sent.
She didn’t recall if she’d received it or not.
Maybe being so busy, she just forgot?
With her, we politely asked for a photo,
But to our total amazement, she said ‘no! ’
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Seagull
I see your familiar figure; I hear your raucous cry,
As you catch warm currents of air, way up on high;
You decided to turn tail, and head many miles inland,
Leaving behind shimmering seas, and soft, silken sands.
On a hot summer's day, I yearn to be down by the coast:
Down by the water's edge, is where I love to be the most;
Given the choice of being land-locked or down by the sea,
I wouldn't have a single doubt where I would rather be.
As you fly onwards, you are cooled by the summer breeze;
You travel over hills and dales, and woodlands, full of trees.
I cannot comprehend why you have left your heavenly home:
Why, over unfamiliar territory, you've now decided to roam.
Why journey so far inland, to search for some man-made dish,
When, way out at sea, you can forever feast on tasty, fresh fish?
Your chaotic chorus of calls is such welcome music to my ears:
I recall my visits to the sea, and those memories bring me cheer.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Wolfblood
She looks like a schoolgirl, but a dark secret she hides;
It is only in her own kind, that she feels able to confide.
Whenever there's a full moon, her human form morphs
Into the sleek and unmistakable form of a female wolf.
In human form, when feelings of anger take ahold,
Her eyes immediately flash the colour of liquid gold.
Whenever she feels threatened, she lets out a roar;
Her once brave assailants will then run away for sure.
With a face full of fury and her sharp teeth bared,
The humans about her feel both shocked and scared.
Her primal cravings for meat, she must learn to control;
She must learn how to pacify her true Wolfblood soul.
As she grows older, she has so many things to learn.
So many unanswered questions inside her still burn.
The blood of wolves pulses through her every vein;
Trying to keep such a secret, drives her almost insane.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Music Festival
The beat of the music goes THUD! THUD! THUD!
As revellers dance around, ankle deep, in thick, gooey mud.
Bedecked in waterproofs and their designer Wellington boots,
The festival goers are all having themselves a right old hoot.
Famous bands have been booked to headline.
The organisers pray that the weather stays fine.
Revellers of every age – both young and old,
Are wrapped up against the wild wind, so cold.
The fans sway from side to side and wave their hands,
As they sing along at the tops of their voices to the bands.
Some fans are here to see their favourite bands in the flesh,
While others want to check out talent, that’s new and fresh.
Despite the mud, there’s a smile on every face
Of the fans who, each year, flock to this place.
Some girls wear pretty flowers in their hair.
At their heroes on stage, they stand and stare.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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When We Were Young
I remember when I was a little child,
Both, you and I, used to run free and wild.
We plaited each others long, blonde hair.
Back then, our lives were free from care.
We spied both the butterfly and the ladybird,
And ate dainty tarts filled with lemon curd.
We jumped in puddles in our Wellie boots.
We searched in ponds for frogs and newts.
We both believed in fairies and in witches.
Monopoly money became our worldly riches.
Knees were scraped, and secrets were shared.
In awe, at coloured rainbows, we both stared.
We used to love playing out in the snow,
Which made our cheeks and fingers glow.
We played at ‘houses', ‘hospitals' and ‘shops'.
We performed plays with costumes and props.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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BBC Proms
To be a part of the BBC Proms season,
There are several extremely good reasons.
The majestic building: London’s Royal Albert Hall,
Is one of the greatest concert venues of them all.
Each Season, people flock through its many doors.
Different types of music they have come to explore.
The BBC Proms season attracts audiences young and old.
For this great music festival, a shining torch people always hold.
It gives musicians the chance to showcase the amazing art
Of talented composers from Mahler through to Mozart.
People get the chance to hear works old and new.
By the famous works, especially, the fans are wooed.
Singers and musicians from all over the world,
Come together to take part in this musical pearl.
For nearly two whole months, there are concerts every day.
It really is the world’s greatest celebration of classical music. Yay!
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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A Snowy Day
I sense an unfamiliar brightness, and very soon, I'm awake.
I go to my window, which is covered with tiny snowflakes.
As far as the eye can see, there's a carpet of pure white:
It's a magnificent and beautiful, but still rather rare, sight.
People pull on their patterned, designer, Wellington boots;
Icy footprints in the snow, mark out the well trodden routes.
Children play in the snow and build a snowman;
They build him up as tall, as they possibly can.
Everything looks so very different when covered by snow;
Suddenly, you're not too sure where your feet should now go.
I love to walk through the parts, where snow is undisturbed;
Even though I now can no longer tell the road from the curb.
There is now a real lack of distinguishing features,
And a noticeable absence of warm-blooded creatures.
In the sunshine, the snow, like tiny diamonds, glints;
Its delicate surface now peppered with animal prints.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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