Angela Wybrow Poems

There’s a day every summer which I cannot bear:
The day when millions of ants all take to the air.
The sultry summer air suddenly comes alive,
As, around and about, the ants dart and dive.
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Numerous High Street names
Are going to the wall;
Soon, there'll be nothing left:
Not a single trace at all.
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Way beneath the sizzling sun,
Dozens of children are having fun.
Dressed in swimwear, they’re having a ball,
In the fountains outside Festival Hall.
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It is over twenty-five years ago,
Since this lady performed a live show:
Way back then, she was one of four,
Topping the charts with hit songs galore.
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At me, you stand there and snigger,
But when you are a little bit bigger,
You may well start to realise,
That not everybody has perfect eyes.
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First, the babe in arms,
Dressed in clothes of pink;
Who feasts upon Farley’s Rusks;
Who loves warm milk to drink.
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She ambles along with her eyes on the screen:
Doesn’t know where she’s going or where she has been.
Doesn’t know what’s behind her or up ahead:
If she’s not careful, she may end up dead.
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Consider a roll, with a bacon and fried banana filling;
To take a bite, would you consider yourself willing?
Worcestershire sauce poured over cheese on toast,
Is a concept which, to me, seems really rather gross.
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To me, this bad feeling is one, which isn’t all that new;
It’s an emotion which, many times, I have been through.
It’s the final evening of my trip away,
And, deep inside, I’m yearning to stay.
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With her caramel fur, and long, floppy ears,
Seeing Katie go for her walk, brings me cheer.
Away from her mistress, she excitedly bolts;
Over neighbour’s fences, she effortlessly vaults.
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