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Writings and Witterings


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Dad always did like Pam Ayres

For my loved and much-missed dad on Father’s Day.

Eric Dudley Dawkins at his Grandson's wedding

Dad always did like Pam Ayres

A shadow of his former self,
my dad, in a hospital bed,
he’d broken his hip and a bit of his mind,
I’ll tell you what he said.

His close-mouthed lips formed these words:
‘Me teeth, me ruddy teeth!’
     ‘What about them Dad?’ I sighed,
‘Me teeth, me ruddy teeth.’

His face looked loppy-sided,
he didn’t try to grin,
I peered, to find the problem,
for sure, his teeth were in.

‘They’ve give me someone else’s,’
he lisped, with an air of dismissal,
     ‘Let me see,’ it made me smile
that when he spoke, he whistled.

His teeth were in, but upside-down,
he’d played these games before,
I liked this one a lot better
than searching for teeth on the floor!

Polly Stretton © 2018


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Raw

I think of feet that tramp and tread waved hills,
of stories, songs and poems stone tracks inspire,
of creatures great and small, the shouts and trills,
of men, myths of monsters, faeries, giants.
A million years and more, they’ve stood to brood,
a vale eruption, ridgebacked, raw and proud,
they beckon, call upon us to intrude,
and haunting bluebell oceans trumpet loud.
Yet when I climb those taxing slopes once more,
to see the valleys spread out far below,
it is like searching for an ancient shore,
that seeing through a spyglass cannot show,
the light and shade illuminated when
my eyes are dim and I shan’t come again.

Polly Stretton © 2019

The Poetry of Worcestershire (Offa’s Press 2019)

Malvern Hills from Crown East

Malvern Hills