Angela Wybrow Poems

Factories, once engulfed by workplace smells,
Are now little more than empty shells.
Machinery, which once clanked and clattered,
Stands abandoned, broken and battered.
...

A gust of wind dislodges it from its bed;
It travels upwards and drifts far overhead.

It climbs on higher and then higher still;
It seems to possess its own free will.
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She howls like a wolf, morning, noon, and night,
Whenever her family, are not within her sight.
I always know when none of her family are about,
As she barks and howls, until she wears herself out.
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On any hot and sunny, summer's day,
Millions of bugs appear, to work and play.
Butterflies flit to and fro: they flit high and flit low;
Bringing a touch of beauty, wherever they may go.
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The Orb Weaver spider spins her web,
Round and round and round.
She works away slowly and silently,
Without making a single sound.
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Endless records being spun.
Everybody's having fun.
Girls wearing sparkly tops.
The cork from a champagne bottle pops.
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I have often walked along that way,
But it wasn’t until earlier today,
That I saw a rare and wonderful sight,
Which filled my heart with such delight.
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This is the tale of a young girl named Ella,
Who spied out the window a less fortunate fella.
She saw him there, sat down on a seat,
With no where to go and nothing to eat.
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A daffy duck stood in the middle of the road.
She wasn't in a rush, so her time she took.
The approaching lorry driver wasn't happy,
And his angry fist at her he shook!
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We all seem to be living our lives
At an ever increasing pace.
We are finding less and less time
To meet up with people face to face.
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