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Writing at Home

It’s been great to see some of the writing which people have been doing during lockdown and we’re delighted to be able to showcase some new poems which people have sent us on this page. We’d love to see more writing and artwork from Bromsgrove residents so please keep the poems coming.

If you’d like to share your literary creations – or any other kind of creative work – with us, please send them to , or use the #creativebromsgrove hashtag.

Below are recent additions from local carers carers who took part in Worcestershire Carer's Association for Bromsgrove and Redditch creative writing session.

After apple picking (inspired by Robert Frost)

Red faces, panting breaths,

Scratched hands and mossy knees;

They run and run.

A distant voice yells –

               you boys! Get back here!

 

But they are long gone

               though hindered by their plunder.

Trackie bottoms sliding down,

               under the weight of the forbidden fruit.

 

 

When this is all over (inspired by Kathleen Jamie – Lochan)

When this is all over, and we can breathe again,

I will be gone.

 

Gone from the routine, the precautions,

and the lack of spontaneity.

 

Gone from the virtual worlds

that dominate each day.

 

I will be found in the houses of friends,

Of dear friends whose touch I have so deeply missed.

 

We will smile – face to face –

And we will hug each other

until our arms lose their strength.

How'd do you like them apples?

The Russett, furry, fawn and full

The Cox's gleaming, silky coat.

The Bramley, sharp as the knife that lets it fall.

The sweet, sweet Pippin, dripping juice on eager hands.

The core of all the harvest haul.

When this is all over

When this is all over

I will walk across the cliffs

To the secret beach

And let the ashes flow from their confinement.

 

I will watch the pieces

Drift towards the horizon

And she will have her freedom at last.

 

The sunset will glow upon the water

Like the cracked-open door from the landing

And I know she will feel safe.

 

To autumn

The swiftless, steely sky stares back

Across the new cloaked,

Dew soaked

Almost bare

Worcester Pear.

 

Only orange leaves left swinging

At the end of tired branches.