'Teapot', by Oliver Glenn-Craigie
My Dad’s old teapot,
Boiling when it’s angry,
Smelling of smoky Chinese tea,
The steam whistling out of the spout,
The worn handle willing to retire
But staying strong,
The peeling paint falling off,
The smooth edges becoming rough,
Since his teenage years making thousands
Of cups, filled with warmth inside.
'Dawn', by Mark Russell
A golden shaft from above,
Illuminates a heavy shadow’s murky dull.
From frightening darkness,
And unleashed fears,
Come showers of hopefulness,
A green, bright day of clear.
As a deep, crimson sliver
Surfaces on the horizon,
Twittering birds call out their early morning mantra.
The light appears as their little voices quiver.
The colours of day-time, they start to emerge,
Lush greens, rich browns and the bright pink of flowers.
A gentle reminder, that it’s never really gone.
The sun shines its light, like it always has shone.
