Welcome To Our Website

We are a friendly local poetry group that meets on

the third Sunday of each month to read our own

poetry, listen to others’ poetry and talk about poetry.

Meetings take place on the third Sunday afternoon of

the month starting at 2.00 o'clock and finishing at

approximately 5.15. In December we meet on the

second Sunday.

They are held in the library of Orley

Farm School, South Hill Avenue, Harrow, Middx.


The nearest tube station is South Harrow. There is no

access by car from the South Harrow end of South

Hill Avenue. Entrance to the library is by a door

round to the left of the building.


Fancy yourself as a poet?


Come and listen or read
your own verse. This local

poetry group started in 1992. Visitors £3.00.

For further details and before coming telephone

0208 864 3149.



Below we will be placing some of our latest verse as tasters.

Wednesday 21 July 2010

Returning To...

Return to me my back yard cage of green
I fill the pool and drag a wicker chair
sit shoeless with my robin’s chirping preen
while concentration scribbles what is there.
Around the world and back, within my head
a broom full-swept those corners clear of dark
then down the stairs where judgment makes its bed
into today, as thought whips up a spark.
Inside my hat a honeycomb of sun
brings bright and close, last woven, ochre straws
and through a time-worn space of toppling fun
I spy, my little eye’s, unclosing doors.
Once sky lay ‘cross the floor, a rippled rag
reflecting clouds up to an ethered void,
the crissing, crossing pond waved such a flag
as mother’s words rang back, you must avoid…
Still flies wash under sun, in water’s glance
recorded for posterity, they glide
breathe in and out, no microbes stand a chance
across the rise and fall of God’s keen tide.
But I’ll return whenever heat spares time
set down a wetted course with thankful feet
skip smiling through a dreamy summer’s clime
and dance at rest to heart’s unerring beat.

Jerry Pike

Family Home, Lincolnshire

and from the summerhouse, the view
is, first, that unmarked area of grass,
whyere stoiod the Air Force quarters of a few
of England's Few, that rings with silent laughs,
our chipping green for practice golf. Beyond-
the orchards georgeous blossom, later fruit
to village children and the Anderson,
now apple store. Then, topiary in privet
and in box; my sculptor's handscan see
the shape inside the mass. By Perkins' grave,
a clump of perfect daffodils blow free
of london's politicking stress. I have
a cherished weekend refuge where I come,
say, "Hello, House, Restore me," I am home.

Dorothy Pope

Front Door

Front Door

It swings on its hinges and 1 feel in control
as I usually do this side of the threshold.
In the mirror here in the airlock of a porch
between two doors with pebble thick glass
1 catch a glimpse of my confident self
preparing a greeting of nonchalant surprise;
but then at the blurred hint of someone unknown
standing in wait beyond the outer door frame,
these's a sliver of doubt about what happens next when 1 come face to face with whoever's outside.

For there'u a universe beyond oar safe homes
designed and honed and perfected,
piping in pictures of accepted mankind
along with the water and power and gas.
Likely it's a cold caller, for Mammon or Jesus,
and twice as hard to dismiss on the doorstep
as those on the phone you freeze out
with the push of a switch.

Right now the door is still moving
on its well oiled axis
and that figure before me has yet to resolve.
1 can tell only they're unknown and reflect on
how strange the world that's been left for us is:
I would never expect a monarch with a gun
or a gangster hot on the run,
but before 1 have time to properly see,
Possibilities like these shoot through my mind.
It's disturbing for one who treasures his quiet;
yet each time the bell rings,
1 pat down my cup
blindly trot out m the door like a dog,
not really sure what the question might be,
what 1 will say
or who it is for.

Peter Keeble

Horse Drawn

Horse Drawn

The sadness on the faces of the horses
that stand by the hedge separating
field from A - road, haunts my journey
and looms close in my sleep,

To stand all day and watch the world pass
is not enough to produce the soul deep sorrow that
grows between folds of skin
then spreads to take over the being,
Immovable pain hinting at what
is known, and at what we can only guess,
remains reflected in the rear view mirror.

N. Elder

Tuesday 13 July 2010

Stepping Stones

She’s wearing
the wrong sort of shoes
to follow her daughter
across the stones.

She hears the water;
a rush of bubbles
concentrating sunlight
filling her eyes
with the excitement
of her child’s.

She then takes off
her fashionable shoes
and steps onto
the first stone.

She absorbs its warmth
through the soles
of her feet;
the first time in years
they’ve felt
anything this gentle.

She walks across
feeling carefully
the surface
of each stone.

She joins her daughter
laughing.

Jennifer Johnson