Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Open Door

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden

The keeper of the keys
to worlds we wish to live in,
where secrets float
and the impossible becomes possible.
We have a story to tell,
something on our mind.
There’s a light
to show the way
on the bleak bare shore.

Polly Stretton © 2014

Written to dVerse poets prompt by Grace, who features the photography of Brooke Shaden


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No Snow

New Year, and there’s
no snow.
No icicles.
On we go
to see the wraith
of seasons gone,
the phantom here,
the ghost of those to come.

New Year, and there’s
no snow. No icicles. No frost.
Savage spectre of what is lost.
Seasons change.
Extremes occur:
spring’s like summer
used to be. Summer’s short.
Autumn comes early.

And so it goes from year to year
the seasons change, become austere.
Those who live with constant jeers
say this: until we do something,
until we care,
it’s our world, our earth,
whose fate
we share.

Polly Stretton © 2016


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Echoes

IMG_1045

With acknowledgement to Alan Nicholls

In the present, from the past,
a voice that echoes,
a saying that lasts,
even when the body has gone,
what was said will linger on.
‘My mum used to say…’
‘My grannie too…’
‘My dad would have something to say to you.’
In the present, from the past,
a voice that echoes,
echoes that last.

Polly Stretton © 2016


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William’s Footprint

William’s Footprint is a poem about William Dean, who arrived at Croome in about 1796 and was Head Gardener to the 6th and 7th Earls of Coventry for nearly 40 years looking after the walled kitchen garden and the park. He wrote a book about Croome and indexed every plant and tree. This poem was written as part of the Soul-to-Sole project and is shown on the sole of William’s shoe in the shoe rack in the basement.

William’s Footprint

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell
of statues – alive! –
hot walls and wishing wells;
of a serpentine river
and a man-made lake,
of Quercus ilex
and poison Mandrake.

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell,
of the walled kitchen garden
and glass cloche bells,
of boys of seven
who stoke the heated wall,
while the dipping pond
is their longed for call.

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell,
of the Druid and Sabrina’s
trysts in the dell;
of mischievous Pan
piping high and sweet,
the goat-god spies on them
in the grotto where they meet.

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell,
of the nymphs at Croome
and wooded islands where they dwell.
Here’s head gardener Will
wielding spade and pruning hook;
he is grounded and ready
to write his book.

Polly Stretton © 2014


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Peace

If you like pictures,
diagrams, charts,
cartoons, then you’re a ‘Visual’.
No, not a visionary,
a ‘Visual’ who says,

‘I see what you mean,’
‘I get the picture,’
and asks ‘What’s your view?’

It’s the way you like to communicate.
The way you might send messages.

‘Auditory’ defines those who prefer voices,
the radio, talking on the phone,
listening to silence,
asking for directions.
No, not voices in your head,
a listener, a story-teller, a poet.

You say ‘That rings a bell,’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’
‘It sounds OK to me.’

If you’re touchy-feely,
a hug ‘n kisser,
‘Kinesthetic’s’ the word.
You like a ‘hands on’ approach…
But no, the ‘Kinesthetic’s’ guided
by texture and touch.

You say ‘That feels right,’
‘How does this grab you?’
‘Let me try.’

Now…let’s figure out
how to send each one
a message.
The message
is ‘Peace.’

Polly Stretton © 2016


6 Comments

A Drama Of Messages

For the UK National Poetry Day 2016 – theme: Messages

A Drama Of Messages

The memoir of a plane in a blue streaked sky,
a hint of an octopus swirls in purple ink,
the downwind stink of a dirty dog fox
covers campfire embers puffing smoke signals,
while beacons burn at birthdays and jubilees,
barbeques cook to eat and enjoy;
burnt bits and gunky grease get gradually cleaned.
Messages: tasted, smelled, heard and seen.

Polly Stretton © 2016