Me And My Shadow
Sometimes, my shadow appears really short and small;
Whilst, at others, it stretches ahead of me, thin and tall.
Sometimes, my shadow is behind me; sometimes it’s in front.
Quite often, for my shadow, I find myself having to hunt.
Depending on how the street lamps shine their light,
My shadow may be hidden, or may be within my sight.
Sometimes, I have two shadows, plus me;
Then I appear in triplicate: one, two, three.
Sometimes, when I take my time, my shadow seems to rush;
My shadow dances round me, amid the dark night’s hush.
When I wander through an unlit patch, my shadow disappears;
Although I cannot see it for a moment, I know that it is still near.
As I emerge back into the light, I’m rejoined by my shadow.
My best buddy and I are very firmly attached, down at the toe.
My shadow is featureless; of me, it’s just a darkened outline.
During my night-time journey, it’s an ever changing design.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Standing Still
Factories, once engulfed by workplace smells,
Are now little more than empty shells.
Machinery, which once clanked and clattered,
Stands abandoned, broken and battered.
Cranes, once driven to earn a crust,
Now lay abandoned and full of rust.
People once worked here to pay their bills,
But now the place is standing still.
For trade, this place was an important hub;
It even had its own working men's club.
In its heyday, it saw many deliveries;
Now the silence leaves you shivery.
Along the quayside, big ships docked;
In and out, the dock workers clocked.
It was a hive of activity every day,
Until the workforce were sent away.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Brownies
The Brownie is a magical, mysterious little creature,
With brown, wrinkled skin, and haggard looking features.
He will adopt a house and will do many of the chores,
From running little errands, to sweeping all the floors.
A Brownie will happily finish off any leftover task
For their chosen master, without ever being asked.
The Brownie is indispensable, and he will be the one
Who carries out all the tasks, which are left undone.
These hard-working men, who often resemble waifs,
Will watch over farm animals and will keep them safe.
In return for their labour, they do not expect any money:
Just a bowlful of cream, and a cake spread with honey.
They will readily accept payment in the form of food,
But any other form of payment is considered rather rude.
If, as a form of payment, brand new garments are received,
The offended Brownie is very likely to up sticks and leave.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Under The Weather
Along the streets, my leaden feet plod:
In my mind, this all feels quite odd.
Usually, when walking, I keep a good pace,
But, at the moment, this is not the case.
When I cough, my chest gives a rattle.
Just to keep going, feels like a battle.
Walking along a road that's all uphill,
Is a real struggle, and takes all of my will.
I seem to have lost my ‘get up and go.'
My pace at the moment is painfully slow.
My nose is all flaky, and has gone red.
Now, when I cough, it hurts my head.
I don't really feel like a lot to eat.
I prefer sitting down to rest my feet.
My soul within, feels quite deflated.
At my slow pace, I feel quite frustrated.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Birdsong
The morning air suddenly comes alive,
With beautiful birdsong, in bursts of five.
Sometimes, there are bursts of seven or six,
To add a dash of variety, to the musical mix.
From other birds, there is no competition;
To sing the best, this bird is on a mission.
He sings his song loudly, and crystal clear;
Sat way up high in the tree, he feels no fear.
To his heart’s content, the little bird sings;
Joy, to nearby shoppers, his sweet song brings.
I hear the shrill trill of a nearby burglar alarm;
Compared to the bird’s trill, it holds no charm.
Hearing his call, really brightens up my day,
As I pass him by, and go steadily on my way.
Some people are too busy to notice his call;
Upon their deaf ears, his pretty voice falls.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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London
My visits to London always bring me cheer;
I wish it were possible to bottle the atmosphere.
I would collect together all the sights and sounds,
And surround myself with them, when I’m down.
A trip to London always seems to lift my mood;
By good old London town, I’m easily wooed.
There is always something new and exciting,
Which is why, to me, London seems so inviting.
I may begin a day feeling just a little bit down,
But once in London, a smile replaces my frown.
It’s one of my very favourite places to be;
There’s always so much to do and to see.
I think that London is such an amazing place;
It can suit all your needs, whatever your pace.
In central London, people are always in a rush,
But in the gardens and parks, can be found, hush.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Speedboat Ride
Eastwards, along the Thames, we leisurely cruise,
Taking in, all around us, some magnificent views.
We are given a live commentary, by our Guide,
As, past many places of interest, we now ride.
By the time, the speedboat reaches Canary Wharf,
There is far less river traffic, going to and forth.
Very suddenly, our boat picks up great speed;
To hold on tightly, there now is a great need.
As our boat zooms about, here and there,
The cold, wild wind whips through our hair.
The experience is just so totally exhilarating,
And, most definitely, well worth the waiting.
As the speedboat, merrily twists and turns,
The river water, below us, restlessly churns.
The boat zigzags about, rocking side to side;
In our seats, our bottoms can’t help but slide.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Wrong Way
I don't know which planet I'm living on today,
But I got on the Tube, and went the wrong way!
I was travelling North, instead of travelling West:
That I was going the wrong way, no one else guessed.
The heat has, very obviously, gone to my head,
Plus I am feeling tired, as it's too hot in bed.
Catching the wrong train is just not like me,
As I travel around London a lot, you see.
It's a boiling hot day, so that's what I'll blame:
I'm sure many others are feeling just the same.
The heat made my brain feel slightly pickled;
Down my back, the sweat slowly trickled.
Usually, when I'm in London, I'm totally fine,
As I am pretty familiar with all of the Lines.
I don't usually make mistakes of this kind,
But, I guess, I just had other stuff on my mind.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Max: The Terrier
As soon as the front door opens,
Max, the dog, dashes straight out;
He feels thrilled to be finally free,
And he happily frolics about.
Once he's out of the garden gate,
He bolts down the nearby alley.
He doesn't ever once look back,
And he doesn't ever dilly-dally.
Although it is cosy in the house,
He'd much rather be outdoors;
As there is nothing that he likes
Better than being able to explore.
He prides himself on being friendly
To any people that he may meet;
He rushes up to them, barking,
And runs circles round their feet.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Titanic
She was built in the city of Belfast;
She was a ship that was built to last.
She was rumoured to be unsinkable,
But, soon happened, the unthinkable.
She left the dockside, to the sound of cheers.
Her ballroom was bedecked with chandeliers.
On champagne and caviar, her passengers dined,
As they left Britain's shore far, far behind.
She steamed across the Atlantic Ocean,
Keeping good time, with a steady motion.
Little did her passengers know what lay ahead,
As they all lay there a-sleeping in their beds.
To avoid an iceberg, her Captain tried,
But ice put a hole in her starboard side.
Into her huge hull, the sea water gushed;
Along the decks, the water soon rushed.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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