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Around the Corners: Poetry Inspired by Patricia Scott's Words, and My Challenge to Others


Ann loves to write poetry and stories. Current poetry on Nature, Travel & beyond, including varied poetic structures.

Where does this go?

Path to Who Knows Where... we explore, we find, we learn

Path to Who Knows Where... we explore, we find, we learn

Definition of a Good Poet

Patricia Scott, a fellow hubber, thinks that 'writing poetry takes a special talent' which she describes as

"a way to see around the corners and over the hills and under the seas and through the wind".

Patricia said she could not write poetry - I beg to differ! Those words convey such insight and depth of feeling, especially ‘through the wind’.

That got me thinking about those four scenarios, which in turn led me to these pieces of poetry. I hope I can do justice to Patricia’s words.


Photography is my passion. Nature, people and places inspire me to click the shutter often; therefore I have hundreds of photos from which to choose!

There are two pictures to match each of the four scenarios, starting with the path through the woods and the brown water turning into the green.

Brown Turns to Green

Water's Pathways

Water's Pathways

'Around the Corners'

Tracks to Tease:

Silent tread by bubbling stream,

upward I stroll on softening earth,

kicking leaves like a two-year old.

The track takes my eye up and around

to where I wonder. A road? Hope not.

A house? Maybe. Derelict history.

Walking soothes, imagination rambles,

I dream of hidden valleys, tumbling rocks

where I squeeze through the entrance

to the wizard’s tunnel.

Coloured Waters:

Sulphur stream rushing through narrow pass,

turning as it rubs shoulders with the never-budging boulders,

taking its smell into the pond where one can bathe in green,

emerging cleansed.

Climb Up! What Lies on the Other Side?

Look at the sky, look at the trees, what will you find beyond the summit? (Cheddar Gorge, Somerset)

Look at the sky, look at the trees, what will you find beyond the summit? (Cheddar Gorge, Somerset)

On the Other Side

On the Other Side

'Over the Hills'

Craggy Skyline:

Layered stone, ever upward, cricked neck

as eyes reach the top of the Gorge..

I follow to solve the mystery.

Pale sky, open, stretching sideways,

makes me anticipate a panorama

of flat lands to distant horizon.

Or perhaps another dizzying dive,

switchback of rocks and sharp cliff,

buzzard’s view of Lilliputian figures below.

Between the Hills:

Over one hill, stretching my reach to the other side,

flying across the shimmer of doldrum sea

to distant darkness shrouded in swirling storm.

Dinky cars and people on the sands, do they know

what lies behind me, over this hill? Do they know

those dark hills southward lead to a land where stories grow?

Lorna Doone’s fate still treads the moors, between the hills

where dastardly deeds and romantic waters flow to the sea.

Go Beneath the Waves

River v Sea

River v Sea

Waves Crash to Shore, Covering, Uncovering, Disturbing Beds and Stones

Waves Crash to Shore, Covering, Uncovering, Disturbing Beds and Stones

'Under the Seas'

River versus Sea:

Choppy waters, childish clashes, tedious tussles - which will win?

River Parrett mustn’t be late, flowing to sea to follow its fate,

Rushing tides push it back, battling to reclaim their place

‘twixt sand and mud.

Meeting twice daily beyond the jetty, vying for space, churning with time,

this battle fought above bed of mud and lugworms, where lurk the souls

of the taken, slipped off the jetty or walked too far, unaware of fickle quicksand under the waves.

Crashing to Shore:

Dark depths, turquoise shallows, white surf,

take it in turns to grab the gaze,

soothing rhythm, wave after wave arriving,

then thundering its beat on shore,

echoing the depths where no one goes.

In measured depth of final reach,

saltwater cools the beach’s brow,

caressing the sands, splashing the rocks,

filling the pools for crabs and limpets’ delight,

ignoring grave-caves, cruel crevices below.

I’ll take that path downwards, to feel the sand

between my toes, the breeze on my face,

the sun melting my cares away.

We’ll watch the waders, the gulls, the eagles,

the seals who dive to feed,

then rest in the sun, all of us.

I’ll think of those who work the waves to live,

to feed the world, to explore that hidden life,

spectacular in sights, sensational in dangers.

Respect it or accept whatever peril awaits.

Face of the Wind

Do you see the Face of the Wind?

Do you see the Face of the Wind?

Pushing, Stretching the Trees

Pushing, Stretching the Trees

'Through the Wind'

Invisible, Fickle Wind:

A light breeze, a south-westerly wind, blustery gale or tossing tempest,

we feel them all, invisible, mysterious.

It blows up slowly, or hits with haste, ruffles your hair or rips through the roots,

we feel it drying our lips, lifting skirts.

We listen in the night as it howls round the rafters. Will it throw away the tiles?

Will it split or poleaxe that tree?

You can hear its approach, marching up from beyond, stretching rag-doll trees,

wreaking its havoc, then leaving be.

In its wake, dried washing on the line, autumn leaves strewn on the ground,

or maybe dried crops, ruined for another year.

Fickle wind, carving its path through the trees, pushing us around, or merely

caressing the waves and reviving us.

Stirring up the classroom ’til no one listens, nerves frayed and hearts a-beat.

Send us home for we can’t learn, Miss!

We see the intention, the results on the other side, but we never see its face,

except, perhaps, on a nerve-end day when wind and clouds and rain conspire,

to leave a trace of anger in the sky.

Turning Trees Inside Out:

Old Oaks rebuff the gusts, while tender saplings fall, uprooted.

Wispy Willows bow and sway, silver-side revealed, pointing north-east.

A branch could crack but the sturdy oak holds its ground, forever,

hundreds of years’ testament to its power against the wind.

The graceful Willow rides the air, bowing, showing off its supple muscles.

Birds hold tight to lower branches of shrubs, or hunker down in their nests,

hoping to ride out the storm. Flying backwards is not their favourite pastime.

Buzzards ride the thermals, skilful at playing with the wind.

The storm might blow through the trees, through our bodies, but…

what do we see through the wind?

Around the Corner, Between the Hills, Out to the Sea

Coloured waters under a Setting Sun

Coloured waters under a Setting Sun


Choose one (or more) of the four criteria above and write about it - poem or prose. You have my permission to use any of the above photos, should you wish, as long as it is for this sole purpose and that you attribute them to me please. Of course, you could use any pertinent inspirational photos of your own choosing.

Let me know if you do take up the challenge, then I can add your link to this hub.

Have fun!

Responses to the challenge: - John Hansen - Greg Cain - Charlie Halliday - Chris Mills - manatita

Power of Nature

© 2020 Ann Carr

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