Patrick Ladbrooke Poems
|2.||The Furrow Followed||10/10/2011|
|3.||The Last Glass||5/1/2014|
|9.||Chasing Silver Darlings||10/29/2014|
|11.||Old Men Of The Sea||11/5/2014|
|19.||The Conker Tree||10/30/2014|
|20.||A Navy Man||10/28/2014|
|21.||Colours Of Love, Passing||10/27/2014|
|23.||Abbey Ruin (St Benets Abbey, Norfolk)||11/5/2014|
|25.||The Kissing Gate||12/29/2008|
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 ...
Thompson took the crease;
with broken pallet plank in hand,
tapped at the cracked concrete.
Smith bowled, right arm over dustbin
the delivery invisible in the dim street light.
Thompson played defensively,
fending the flint cobble from the back door.
Time running short, runs were needed, but
Smith's guile in bowling from the shadows