I began to discover literature, including poetry just 3 years ago at the age of 57, after spending my whole career as a chemist. I have written some short stories and poems since, some of which have been published, but only in places that will publish anything. It's a hobby really (he says, wishing he could make a success of it!) .
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Patrick Ladbrooke Poems
I remember nights of roaring surf, The long rods nodding with the pull, Watching in the hiss and glare of pressure lamps, Waiting with my father, for the fish to run.
The Kissing Gate
There is a five bar gate, white, by a woodland track where, half a century back, we talked till evening late.
On the trailing edge of winter, pale light led me To the cut, where alder and bowed willow stand Reflected in the greys and browns of long waiting, While winter burdened boats slack at their ropes.
Abbey Ruin (St Benets Abbey, Norfolk)
Tall the abbey tower, Now with no bell to call Through a perfect arch to nowhere, But a crumbling abbey wall.
Ahead, in rain, the morning surges With brake lights on the dual carriageway; Around a slight curve traffic crushes Yellow blinking to the outside lane.
Colours Of Love, Passing
No black is blacker than the darkest night, Without star or moon, Or guiding light, Of love.
A Navy Man
A stranger he will be The sailor home from sea, To child left in the womb An infant now he's home.
The Conker Tree
When I last walked down this lane I was just a boy Short trousered and muddy kneed. The puddles were much deeper then
I tread the leaves, Which rustling, fly; Life's steps I've gladly taken Blackened lie,
Orange lines of sodium Beckon through the mist, Lanes flowing, slowing, Climbing up to Saddleworth.
Chasing Silver Darlings
When autumn came, the sea would swell With the harvest to deliver, And the air was filled with herring smell, From quays along the river.
The pain of pride and ache to cry, For those old soldiers, marching by, Now fragile in their marching pride, Whose age worn faces cannot hide
The places where we once met Once loved In love, Stand empty, desolated.
A place of beauty, So it seemed, But I shivered I realised,
Comments about Patrick Ladbrooke
I remember nights of roaring surf,
The long rods nodding with the pull,
Watching in the hiss and glare of pressure lamps,
Waiting with my father, for the fish to run.
And run they did, made lines sing in the wind,
Smooth muscled silver-green flanked cod,
Gorged plump on shrimp shoaled in the scour.
We cradled them from breaker’s undertow,
Our sea soaked clothes raw in the cold of night,
To marvel as they glistened on the sand.
Next day, served on our plates,
They tasted like they’d swum from seas of heaven.
But time has stolen him away from ...