Writings and Witterings


not sorry yet

Meadow Run Away

four-year-old legs pumping running away
ma shouts after me ‘come back’ sister wails
ma is livid i pushed the bowl downstairs
this is how she sees it it is my fault
a tall ten-pint goldfish bowl three goldfish
i run down the meadow behind our house
it is hay-making time yellow grass scent
and dust tickle my nose and make me sneeze
sneeze stops me for long enough she catches
me i have glanced behind in my run and
seen her struggling with my little sister
but ma is grim-faced and determined that
i will be caught and punished it was an
accident i tripped knocked into the bowl
which bounced down each stair fish flying water
arcing the finest mirrored droplets splash
the sound of breaking glass tinkles downwards
she comes out of the kitchen babe on hip
and roars ‘nooooo’ i flee out the open door
my legs pump i feel my heart i hear my
breath coming jagged i smell the hay i
sneeze she catches me she screams thrashes me
and at each step thrashes me again all
up the meadow back into the house she
is crying hot angry tears me howling
mortified indignant rebellious
an accident i sob my jaw jutting
i am but four-years-old not sorry yet

Polly Robinson © 2012

‘not sorry yet’ was written in 2012 and published in my first poetry collection ‘Girl’s Got Rhythm‘ which was reprinted 2014.


About ‘The Wait’ & ‘The Roar’

I was fortunate enough to have some of my poems published in ‘The Wait’ and will certainly consider submitting poems to this year’s ‘The Roar’ – all the more worthwhile because ‘every penny our poets make goes directly towards fighting cancer.’ Follow this link for details:

About ‘The Wait’ & ‘The Roar’.



Castle Coppice near News Wood, Malvern Hills

Castle Coppice near News Wood, Malvern Hills


Bluest blue bluebell, harbinger of summer
bends and bows under dainty weight,
in shady dells delicate slumbering
melodic mass, merry mist of haze.
Dip down and dance,
shiver in scented puffs,
chinkling and tinkling like infants’ laughter,
slender stems, slight, tender yet tough,
fight off the advance of the Spanish Armada.

Polly Robinson © 2015

‘One of the wonders of our spring’ on BBC Radio 4 ‘World at One’ today reminded me of my poem ‘English Bluebells’ written in 2012 and published in my first poetry collection ‘Girl’s Got Rhythm‘. This is the 2015 version.

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Worcester Flash Fiction 2015 Slam Winner


Our very own Andrew Owens ran off with the Worcestershire LitFest Flash Fiction Championship 2015 – Yay! Well done Andrew :)

Originally posted on andrew owens :


On June 21st 2015 Andrew Owens won Worcestershire Litfest & Fringe’s 2nd Flash Fiction Slam. Having gotten to the semi-final the previous year, Andrew took the title in a tightly contested final for 2015. He opened each round of the competition and put an end to his own theory that if you go first, you don’t win. His first piece “Little Alice” gained notable admiration from the audience and his second entry “Kids 4 Cash” cemented his place in the final. He finished his set with “Fate or Destiny” piping the much loved and respected Tony Judge (author of “Sirocco Express” and “The Whole Rotten Edifice”) to the title. A great opening event to compliment that evening’s main feature the Worcester Poetry Slam for which Peter Wytton took the crown.

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Spiders On The Bridge

In summer, walking Worcester Bridge,
we see a sight that makes us twitch.
Others stop and peer and stare
at spiders dancing.
We don’t dare avert our eyes
as they spin webs to catch small flies,
but we watch and wonder,
at the thousands, at least hundreds:
what a show!
Our amazement grows and grows,
they cluster, muster round the lamps
busy making spider camps
on lights and pillars of the bridge
lined by trapped moth, gnat and midge.

And big fat spiders.

Polly Robinson © 2015


Midsummer Eve

Acknowledgement to worcesternews.co.uk

Acknowledgement to worcesternews.co.uk

Midsummer Eve

She is Sabrina, wending through Worcester,
gestures: splashes rock
in moonlight on windborne scents
of cow parsley and whispering waters,
her shadow caught by the clan.

Paths millions of years old
age around smooth muds
trodden by man.

She snakes through four counties,
visits the fairest cities,
leaves her sister to landscape
purple hills and golden valleys,
but she never strays far
from the haunts of men.

All this we know as we hear the river
swooping and dancing, see eyes close
romancing and glancing at words
to celebrate the place in which we stay.
It’s midsummer – midsummer eve.

Polly Robinson © 2015

To celebrate Midsummer Eve, this poem is written prior to tonight’s midnight walk around the River Severn – 10:30 meet at the Cripplegate Park entrance nearest Worcester Bridge – there will be performances!