Somerset Libraries celebrate
National Poetry Day
Thursday 3 October
Many thanks to all our contributors for these wonderful
water-themed poems.
We’ll be announcing our favourite poems
on Friday 11 October on our website
www.somerset.gov.uk/books
One adult will win a copy of the Forward Book of Poetry
One child will win a copy of A Laureate's Choice: 101
Poems for Children Chosen by Carol Ann Duffy
Water Aid
When Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch that pail of water
Folk often had to give the job to their more agile sons and daughters.
But the engineers of yesteryears applied their learned wisdom
And mapped out plans and great ideas for a whole new water system.
For taps and pipes, and pumps and drains, to utilise our natural rains
That web of hidden waterways that oils our world, supports our ways.
We wash the dishes, scrub the floor, bath the baby, clean the car
Open the door and pile clothes in, shut the door and watch them spin
Put on the kettle and make the tea in the name of domesticity.
Let’s stop a while; put in the plug, turn on the tap,
Find somebody to scrub your back. Add some bubbles, soak and ponder
A life without that running water.
In Somerset the rain is part of Nature’s gravy train.
Her streams and rivers sparkle by satisfying ear and eye.
We don’t wait for months and months for our yearly water ration
Or greet the rain with a parched and thankful passion.
We take turning on our taps for granted, and running water as a right
As we do our central heating and switching on electric light.
Lets spare a thought and money too, to back a universal fight
For all those people out of sight who still trek up and down the hills
When their water pots need to be refilled.
Who have to wash and cook and wean with water that is still unclean.
Who often have to watch their children die
Under a relentless sky.
Anne Stevens
There Are No Clouds
Cast off the mooring ropes at bow and stern
Head out into the early morning mist
Hoist the big mainsail, free the jib, and turn
Feeling the filling canvas make her list
The venerable diesel chugs and splutters
Its smoky wraith lingering in our wake
We weave our way between sloops and cutters
Cleaving across crests beginning to break
Waves slap the hull and slither down the deck
We’ve left the strident seagulls far behind
The lighthouse beam pales as we pass the wreck
Whose rusting iron ribs still groan and grind
We round the point and catch the tidal flow
Astern, a fresh Force 4 lends us its wings
No engine needed now. I go below
And listen to the sounds that silence brings
An inner peace surfaces in this calm
Quietly floating all one’s stress away
Silence with stillness - a heavenly balm
That heals the damage of each crazy day
I go up top and breathe in salty air
Now, far away from the jostling crowds
I adjust my eyes to the sun’s bright glare
And scan the horizon - there are no clouds
Alexander Blackie
The Lady of the lake’s lament
Despite the name-thing I’m really not,
Like that Lady-of-Shallot, a lot,
In my beguiling watery guise,
With passing boatmen I used to toy,
Tempting them with carnal joy,
Before making their boats capsize.
Then I had this Guardian position,
Stray bold knights I’d proposition,
Offering them this magic sword,
(Or me), but alas, I had to ensure,
They were both worthy and pure,
So I quickly got rather bored.
Yes, L.O.T.L. still here,
Unlike that trollop Guinevere,
Made such a fuss becoming undone
After she and Arthur, tied the knot,
She lusted after Lancelot, a lot,
Had her fun, then became a nun.
I deceived Merlin, the old goat,
Not so magical, at staying afloat,
Said he’d teach me some of his tricks,
But when he got to my submarine lair,
He just kept complaining of lack of air, Like magic and water didn’t mix.
So long ago now, I’ve nearly forgot,
Swanning around Camelot, a lot,
Keeping my samite white and cute,
But what’s a girl supposed to do?
When all the world’s forgotten you,
Except an eel and a great-crested neut.
Paul Rogers
That Soggy Stuff Called Rain
Stepping out onto the street,
Umbrella in hand, wellingtons on feet,
I am greeted by the rain.
Huge great heavy drops,
plop down from the sky,
Squeezed from swollen, spongy clouds,
Swirling way up high.
Drains are gushing,
Traffic rushing,
Umbrellas twisting,
Glasses misting,
Puddles splashing,
Headlights flashing,
People dashing,
Thunder crashing!
Standing still,
I wait for my wellingtons to fill,
With that cold wet thing called rain.
Umbrella redundant by my side,
I feel the cold water slide,
Trickling, tickling my ear and neck,
I’m a long way from home but what the heck,
There’s nothing quite like getting wet,
From that soggy stuff called rain.
Charlotte Mellor
Words as Water
Cassen thee hear no more
the words from backalong,
flowing like stickes past batches and burges
Pooling in pulks
turned glassen when still?
Memories of summers gone
so loud with buzzers and bugs,
cycling gurt fast past old men stood clotting;
elvers in hulleys
fleet twily nearby.
Meanings shift and divide
like tree-buts laid on banks.
Spiky old words like bannisticles caught
swimming in jars
kept precious with time.
Cassen thee see no more
the words from backalong?
Chowrin’ down rhines into rivers of time;
Swept by a bore, (while)
some still cling to stwons.
Vicky Garnett
Water Poem
Sunlight sharing the warm welcoming waters
to day trippers and tourists of the
universal countries of England.
Crossing the river Barle we come to the
bridge of stepping stones of Tarr.
The moors of Exmoor barren land with
grazing animals feeding on grass in and
amongst the bracken and heathers.
The river flows near the moors North to
South we watch the rippling waters going
downstream with there shining mirrored
reflection of bushes and trees beside
the river bank.
Gift shop, picnic area, circular walk
surrounding the river Barle. Barle joins the
river Exe with water jumping over stones
while travelling South to Dulverton.
Dulverton a quaint little town quiet and
peaceful with a museum, library, gift shops
food shops and a church. Next to Dulverton
is the village of Exbridge in Somerset
we come to a road bridge and a caravan,
camping site for holidaymakers. There is a
pub that stands near to the flowing
rippling Exe into the English channel
the deep mass wide lake and the sinking
sands joining together all the rivers and
streams into one big sea of water.
Inspiring waterfalls cascading over stones,
Good clean healthy drinking water, used for
healing, helping the sick. Our journey continues
man-made lakes, dancing water rare to see.
Canal boats and canals of still water, rivers, streams.
Shallow and deep water, quarries, rhyne ditches on
the somerset levels, estuaries full of wildlife birds, dragon
-flies, otters, water rats and voles.
Existing bus
Lorraine Charnley
The River…
Has pinned its mirror to the meadow
And lies wide open to the sun’s attack,
Dazzlebombs exploding from its shield.
Water is an occupying force,
Invading neighbouring fields. It came up quick,
As always after heavy rain, and we
Awoke to find the alder trees waist-deep
In surplus river. In the aftermath we see
How it has redefined its living-space,
Redecorated, carved new coves and harbours,
Low secluded beaches of smooth silt Always some project on the go, some miniMasterpiece of bold landscape design
(Lately it’s been creeping slyly round
The back of this old willow - to begin
The island it will finish years later.)
The long walls of its winding gallery
Are covered in Baroque creations: mud
And timber - the sculpted body parts of trees.
Gathering flood-wood for the fire, I feel
Like an art-thief. But the river will forgive
This small transgression - summer will restore
Its equanimity, its little song
(A naiad nestling in the shell of my ear.)
Anthony Watts
Water of Somerset
From Mells to Exe and Yeo to Brue
Come celebrate all waters, too
That flow and shimmer ’neath skies so blue
Or grey when eastbound clouds appear
And drop more water for much of the year
To moisten soil and thirsty fields
And help increase the farmers’ yields.
So blessed, too, with canal and rhyne
For those with boats or rod and line,
Multiplying the tourist’s pleasure
Enticing us out for days of leisure.
The salty stuff that cleans our shore,
Shapes pebbles, beaches, cliffs and more
Has sometimes been a coastal foe
Breaching barriers long ago
And still we see the Levels flood,
Turn pastures green to plains of mud
And yet the water all about
Is something we can’t live without.
This H2O that’s nature’s bounty
Lifeblood to Somerset, our county.
Mike Smith
A Sudden Shower
Pitter, patter on the tin roof,
Stutter, mutter on the tiles,
Crashing, banging on the glass house,
Running, spilling over gutters,
Filling streams for miles and miles;
Rushing, swelling into rivers,
Over the strand and into the sea.
‘Mother, when did all this happen?’
‘While you and I were having tea’.
Annette Sinclair
The Swan
I wandered through the watery fen
Where the reeds reach up to the endless sky,
When round the bend came a lonely swan,
Regal, white, reflecting the light.
No wind to ruffle the water that day,
Nothing to spoil his perfect display.
He and his image sailed quietly on
And all too soon the picture was gone.
A bittern boomed from far away
There, as before, it was me, the water and sky.
Annette Sinclair
Waters Meet
Beside The Galleries’ ridged, earthen field,
The quarried grounds of Sharpstone’s meadow yield
To fertile valleys and the river’s race
By Freshford mills’ grey silent place.
The weaver’s hand once sped the lively leat
Past tentered wool on Rackham’s leaze
Into the main stream’s gentler ease
For fluent medley at the waters’ meet.
Before my sunlit eye, a dappled scene
Reflects the earth’s bright colour, golden-green,
Upon the spangled current’s sequin flow,
Where shadowed branches skyward grow
To lay leaves light mosaic on the air,
And though I guard my jealous view
From others’ gaze, some stranger too
May chance to see the beauty mirrored there.
Janet Lesley Smith
Going for a Swim
The once clear glass of the window pane,
Opaque now as the raindrops trickle down.
Memories come flooding back,
And I plunge in.
Chemistry in the science block,
Witnessing the miracle of two gases
Combining to create H20.
‘H to what Miss?’
It rolled its way down the side of the flask,
But I was more concerned
With what so and so,
Had said about so and so,
And so on.
Holidays in the West of Ireland,
Downpours inevitable,
But we knew that they would bring rainbows,
Allowing the sunlight
To show its true colours.
Those childhood car journeys
In inky darkness,
Writing my name on the damp glass
As headlights cast a momentary glare.
Outside the rain shivered its way down the window.
It could not touch me but it left its mark.
Ah yes, and the summer that a ‘Sodastream’
Made a dramatic entrance to our house.
A thrilling machine that could transform
A bottle filled from any tap
Into the stuff of dreams.
As far as us kids were concerned anyway.
Encore, encore!
I surface to discover
The window pane is clear again,
But my eyes have become opaque with tears.
Distilled memories flowing
Silently down my cheeks,
And I find that weeping
Brings a distressing kind of comfort.
Siobhan Goodwin
Water Poem
‘Piggy-back’ pleads the child
It’s only a shallow stream,
but two hands hoist him up
across the water.
The surly grey waters of the Humber
are daunting; the bridge surely too frail
ever to span the yawning gulf
across the water.
A Frenchman, re-crossing the Channel,
vows fidelity to his English sweetheart.
But he never does come back
across the water.
I live in London, north of the Thames,
only ever looking to the south,
a hostile, alien land
across the water.
Rosemary Burnett
Betty and Bert Go Fishing
Betty sipped her cup of tea and tucked in to her toast
Such a lovely day, she thought, for visiting the coast
She phoned her friend, Bert, straight away to see if he was free
And said ‘Let’s drive to the beach today, such fun for you and me!’
Bert arrived at half past nine, road map at the ready
Betty made the picnic up and said ‘Drive nice and steady’
An hour later they were there, Bert speeding all the way
A voice called out, ‘Book here, right now for fishing trips today!’
Betty turned to Bert with glee and said ‘It’s always been my wish
To sail around the briny sea and try to catch a fish!’
They joined the queue excitedly and hired bait and rod
Then took their seats at rear of boat and tried to spot some cod!
Betty’s line began to shake, she knew she had a bite
She tugged the line then saw a face which gave her quite a fright
This was no sprat, plaice nor cod – she let out such a squeal
The monster rising from the sea was a massive conger eel!
‘Help’ cried Betty manically, as out rose its huge fin
Alas, no help arrived in time, poor Betty was pulled in!
Bert became her Superman and leapt into the sea
He grabbed dear Betty round the neck and said ‘You’re safe with me!’
They scrambled back into the boat, no conger eel in sight
‘Blimey’ Betty said to Bert, ‘That gave me quite a fright’
‘I really can’t remember when I had such a fun adventure,
The only problem seems to be I think I’ve lost my denture!’
They tottered back to Bert’s old car reflecting on their trips
‘I’m feeling peckish’ Bert exclaimed, ‘D’you fancy fish and chips?’
Betty did not relish fish, and said she’d have roast beef
Then suddenly remembered that she didn’t have her teeth!
Back at home all warm and dry, and easing on their slippers
Betty supped tomato soup and Bert cooked up some kippers
‘Now let’s plan our next trip out’, said Bert most eagerly
‘Perhaps we’ll try some abseiling, but nowhere near the sea!’
Marilyn Templeman
Water in the 60s
‘Keep the flow coming, don’t stop pumping!’
That’s Mother’s words said to me
It was ‘all hands on deck’ when wash-day came round
If we were lucky, it’ll be finished by tea.
We’d take it in turns when our arms seized up
Our biceps were strong and hard
Mother would swap full buckets for empty
We’d start again til they all filled the yard.
Yes, it was hard work with no posh tapped water
But ours was clear, sparkling and bright
When others had their water turned off
Ours never failed – ‘twas a sheer delight!
And the taste from our Well was amazing
So cold it would numb all your teeth
We’d sometimes ask Mum if we had any squash
She’d say, ‘look in the cupboard, underneath’
The day came at last when we were ‘joined up’
To the thing that Dad called ‘the mains’
There was lorries & diggers all lining up
Bringing ‘modernisation’ to our lanes.
It was fantastic when we turned on the taps
The water gushed out, hot or cold
And in the outhouse our old pump stood
No use now, time moves on, new for old.
Eileen Moshke
Life
The babbling brook
Gathered pace
As it travelled
Down stream
Towards the river
The water
Glistened in the
Mid-day sun
And
The reflections
Of the bank
Gave way
To shear beauty
Translating
As a testament
To life
The water vole
Darted in and out
Of the water
Gracefully
Enjoying the warmth
Of the day
Oblivious to the
Harsh reality
Of
Being
Michael Solitarius
Love Water
Lakes, tidal reaches, streams, rivers, ponds
and the sea sloshing up Cornish beaches,
washing the shore.
That rock pool:
bubbles of light, sea wrack,
and our reflection gathered there.
The Avon, swinging between rushy banks,
sliding under willow-pattern bridges:
and I, in love with you,
swimming this Rubicon.
Coastal waves, peacock-green,
stained-glass blue,
slopping off rocks,
leaving wet sand quivering,
squeezing between our toes.
And water in disguise:
clouds, hail, snow, mist,
craftily fancy dressed.
You cup your hands,
offer me water from an icy spring.
I close my eyes,
know the taste of paradise.
Jane Williams
H2O
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be a tiny little drip?
Inferior to a drop or splash, but on their seaward trip?
Just a small amount of water, stored in a tiny tear,
Kind of like the condensation on a glass of beer,
Labouring to join their friends to make a river or a pond,
Maybe flowing to the coast and to the sea beyond,
Never knowing their importance on this planet where we live,
Oh I wish I was a drip like them, with all the things they give.
Brian Ashley
Fibonacci poem
Look!
Water
summonsed from
trembling secret depths:
rain flows over stones, roots
old bones, Ilium’s treasure, thunderous power of waterfalls
slow, melting glaciers, creep of silt-heavy floods for farmers crouching in muddy fields
to plant seed offering life to family, cattle, a springtime miracle
while in this garden white butterflies dance in the wind.
pollen-laden bees fumble for nectar, sway and flutter from lavender to hollyhock, dance and
meet in vibrant sunshine, like the ghosts of lost babies, as the sturdy yew trees wait patiently for consoling rain.
Consoling
rain!
sturdy yew
trees wait patiently
as pollen-laden bees fumble flowers
dance, sway and flutter from lavender to hollyhock,
cabbage white butterflies meet in vibrant sunshine like the ghosts of lost babies
while farmers crouch in muddy fields to plant life-giving seed to family, cattle
dependent on the springtime miracle of silt-heavy floods
which flows over old bones, stones, roots, Ilium’s treasure, slow-melting glaxiers, summonsed from
trembling depths, thunderous power of waterfalls, yet still in this garden white butterflies dance in
the wind from lavender to hollyhock.
Elizabeth Rapp
Water poem
That summer.
the river swinging
beneath green willow,
mud, trampled grass;
a haze of mayfly
winging above water.
My thigh boots
splashed the shallows
to where river
poured over weir.
I cast a high arc,
saw my Bloody Butcher
fall, feather light
upon the water.
A tug, a leap, a swish,
reeling in and letting out,
until my exultant cry
as I wound in that fish
through thrashing water.
Perhaps it was ancestral memory
that tilted my heart,
made me unhook the barb,
remembering that all our beginnings
were in the silence of that element
which gave birth to life:
long ago opening and closing
the small windows
of our gills admitting ribbons
of water.
As this wild creature
slipped through the net
of my fingers,
I understood the joy
in setting free watching the balletic
back-flip,
flick of his tail,
the splash,
the streak of silver,
the bright flash`
through shining water.
Jane Williams
A perfect storm
It came quietly
noiselessly rippling along the night
shades, lingering on the rust
catching down the stream
We softly looked up
embracing the weeping over our heads
tin cans shattered the silent air
and all hell breaks loose
Scrambling along the pavement
bouncing through glints
of a frenzied smile
darting out of steam evelopes
The warmth shrugging off
our shoulders,
the lights ahead and reflecting
behind the shadows of what’s coming
a perfect storm
Phoebe Day
The Fountain
Rush over me
on bended knee.
fill my soul
and quench my goal.
My fountain of minute
i want init.
My wash of gold
wash away my old.
This gift of god
this flow of plenty.
Lifting me,when i was empty.
I thank you on high
wave away my sigh.
The more faith in you
the less i have to try.
This natural source
this stream of fulfillment.
this guided light
steer me home at night.
Gary Rundle
Aitch two o
Humus to oak,
Hose to orchid,
Harbour to Oman,
Handbasin to ocean,
Hillside to oxbow,
Hole to oasis,
High tide to overflow,
Here to eternity
WM White
From the beginning of time, drip
Oceans oscillate, seas soar, rivers ripple as lakes languish,
Steams slither, earth envelope’s, it as puddles pitter patter.
All passing heavenwards becoming natures tears.
So fine, so perfect, so exactly formed.
Yet invisible as it magically evaporates into the air.
Cooling vapour colliding with microscopic condensation nuclei.
Rushing, joining, and willing them to accumulate in their teetering
trillions.
A glance above reveals the natural harbour of rain.
As puffs of clouds sweep majestically across all hues of skies.
Then winds whip and gust, banging and bouncing into our natural
and manmade world.
Heavens open to the tingling sound of shimmering particles of
precipitation.
The smell of the richness of saturated soil.
Joy and gratitude as plants spring into existence.
Plunging submerged into its refreshing properties.
Swallowing down its internal act of moisturising.
Water eternal, from when the world began.
It is wonder, it sustains life, and it brings quenching hope.
It is precious, preserve it.
Jan Webb
A River
A river is an explorer’s dream,
Lapping, tearing, rolling,
Slipping over rocks,
A loner in a wide desert,
Smoothing pebbles as it goes.
A river is an explorer’s dream,
Curling, twisting, dancing,
Giving to a bucket in a well,
Finally reflecting the explorer’s dream.
Emma Harris
age 9
A waterfall
A waterfall is an attractive thing.
It’s a bumbling, swirling, dripping, soaking wonder.
It flows roughly through the shimmering rocks.
A waterfall is a charming thing.
It’s a pouring, spraying, bubbling, flowing wonder.
Its bitter-cold water flows swiftly through the rocks.
A waterfall is an astonishing thing.
It’s a smashing, twirling, sparkling, frothing wonder.
It’s a shower for the gleaming rocks.
A waterfall is an inspirational thing.
It’s a crashing, squirting, stunning, stirring wonder.
It falls rapidly until it powerfully hits the sea.
Elsie Buck
age 11
70%
Water is pure, water is special, water is most things to us.
But when the sea goes up, when the waves go out and the fish start
to panic
when the fishermen are out.
Everything is still except for the gleaming eyes of the water.
When the twigs go around and the whirl pools twist.
When people play pooh sticks that’s the life of the rivers.
When frogs jump from lily pad to lily pad when the tadpoles waggle
their
tails and froglets turn to frogs.
When the ponds swirl and people fish that’s the world of pond life.
We drink water, we cook with it, we straighten clothes with it.
But most of all we love it because we are mainly WATER.
Charlotte Webb
age 8
The Wonder of Water
Water is a wonder, water in a river,
water all around even underground.
Water so sleek, and so fine, a river full fed don’t wet your bed!
Water from a waterfall so fast so quick,
let’s go and play with all of our sticks.
Water from the clouds rushes down the mountain, goes
through the cleaner, and shoots out the fountain.
Drip drop drip drop do you hear it plop - drip drop drip
drop when will it stop.
Splash in it, jump in it swim all around,
just like a dolphin that makes a beautiful sound.
Water from a river it started in the sky, it never really
ends as the water rushes by.
Louie John Wagstaff
age 8
Washed Away
Two lovers wandered across the cove
And trod the moistened dune
They sparkled in each other's eyes
Beneath a glowing moon.
The stopped and knelt to fond embrace
Each held a tender hand
Then tracing with a finger
She carved into the sand.
A heart with arrow pierced:
Their intials she did score;
A fond caress, a loving kiss,
‘It’s you forever more.’
Yet some days later to their date,
He ventured all in vain.
Where was she now? She had not come,
His heart it heaved with pain.
So to the beach he wandered back
And found their special spot.
The heart was gone. ’twas washed away
A broken lover’s knot.
David Hawkins