Poetry written by local poets: If you have written poems and would like them displayed please contact us.


Vultures idly swirling patterns through the empty clouds
Dust devils dancing upwards with leaves like crinkled shrouds

Hardy beetles sleep below, waiting for the cool of night
Heat-waves shimmering like rivers - mimicking in spite

Bones so white lie scattered in the rippled wind-blown sand
The spoors of long-dead beasts zig-zagging across the land

Sheet lightning in the distance mocks the jagged dry horizon
Empty promises of storms itís just a pantomime they put on

Wait. The thunder nears, shadows form like rolling waves
Dust rises up in joyful scent as rain comes down and saves

Jo-anne Pritchard, Fleet, Hampshire

Dedicated to my beloved David, who did so much to save lives during the 1980ís drought in Zimbabwe.

The Regal Hunt

The greatest chief of Hwange
In the lion coloured grass
Watches sleekly groomed impala
Soaring graceful as they pass

Twitches his fine ebon whiskers
Stretches out majestic paw
Making not a sound or rumble
Muffles well sonorous roar

Watching silently his queen
As she plays her game of death
Like a voyeur keenly spying
Almost holds his steamy breath

Now the glossy backed impala
Sense the danger, twitch in fear
Warning scream and panic leaps
As the queen draws ever near

But sheís singled out the plumpest
Heavy, pregnant, in dismay
Moving slower than the others
Mother will make easy prey

Then the golden queen leaps forward,
Takes her quarry in mid flight
Now the regal hunt is over
And theyíll banquet well tonight.

Jo-anne Pritchard, Fleet, Hampshire

A Strangerís Lament

Like sentinels gathered on the shore 

So gaunt and craggy, wave-worn rocks 

Staring blindly out across the sea 

Bedecked in windblown seaweed locks 

Hungrily, I search the seaís horizon 

In vain, for shore-line of my land of birth 

Seeing only angry rollers pounding 

Is there a place as lonely on this Earth? 

Thunderous, rampant waves call out to me 

I join them, leaving footprints in the sand 

Standing in their spray we meld as one 

Becoming part of this strange icy land 

With heart as stony as the silent watchmen 

And tears as salty as the windblown sea

Iíll never see again my land of sunshine

Now this strange land must be a part of me

Jo-anne Pritchard, Fleet, Hampshire




Mirror hangs upon the wall.
Tells the truth, or not at all.
Is that me? Iím heard to say.
What-ever happened to yesterday?
I do not feel the way I look,
The final chapters of my book.
My throat swells with saddened thought.
Of all those years, so bitterly fought.
What was it for? Why was it so?
It seems so quick, so fast to go.
Those youthful hopes, now long gone by.
Leave nothing now, but  knowing sigh.
Allan Gibson (inspired by Dads poem) Dec 1997




We travel by train

Sitting on wheels

Ignoring green fields

Where the daffodil kneels


We trundle on concrete

Laid for our needs

Over the lost beauty

We refer to as weeds


We suffer the jibes

And loss of pride

Don't notice the meadows

We just try to hide


Our lives are so fruitless

With no blossom before

No thoughts for the gifts

God gave with his chore








The beauty of the blossomed bough

And the resurrection of the daffodils

In my heart creates the mood of Spring

And in its perfection the love it brings













(with apologies to Rudyard)

  If you can display commitment coupled with desire
And have passion born out of belief
If you can deliver quality (into the box) with every endeavour
And have loads of intent in your feet

  If you can get the ball down those left and right channels
Whilst producing intelligent play
And are un-afraid to get into good positions
Keeping possession when all around you stray

  If you can drop into those little holes behind the back four
Whilst still knowing in your mind where the goal is
And If you want the ball more that any other man
And can curse and spit with contemptuous ease

If you can collapse in the penalty area from the merest touch
And keep asking more questions than the opposition
If you can deliver the ball in all the right areas
Whilst understanding itís a game of two halves

 If you can appeal to the ref with arms outstretched wide
Greeting red and yellow cards with a strange looking grin
And shake your head and show your affected pride
Whist the slow mo shows youíre as guilty as sin

 If you can buy a velly velly  good manager
Who can legislate for every possible move
Whilst being in a continuous rage
Yet still able to control his technical grove

You will be a football team my lads
And may just win the World Cup
 If not, you may need just a little bit of luck.
Simple as, Cold light, End of.