A word in season

I came across some poems in my files recently. They were written during a Junior School workshop I ran as a visiting speaker to the class my son belonged to at the time.

I'd forgotten all about that workshop until I saw the poems again. 

My son is now 34. So I think that's a good enough excuse for the faded memory. 

The workshop would be a good exercise for any creative writing group, or for an individual wanting some inspiration, so I offer the idea here for only £37.50 free of charge.

The idea was 'How to write poems about the seasons.'  Starting with summer, we listened to each corresponding section of Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons' to get ourselves in the zone.

Then, we brainstormed ideas based on questions such as 'What would the season look like/wear/smell like/feel like/sound like/taste like/say to you?' 

Together, we re-shaped the class's ideas into short poems, which I think are delightful. That's Junior School imaginations for you :) 

(Copyright-free picture - cheers, Pixabay)

STRAW HAT 

Mrs Summer walks through the woods

with Sonny, aged 8,

who's dressed in red and white.

Picnic basket

overflowing with strawberries.

Mother wears a straw hat

and long flowing dress,

her hair a golden lion's mane.

Mum - says Sonny.

Can I have a football lolly?

Not now - her voice gentle as a lamb's.

Sonny kicks his ball

high into the wide sky.

MS ROSIE SPRING

Ms Rosie Spring

moves softly

like a lazy stream.

Pink and cream dress,

short sleeves

showing soft arms.

Blonde hair

silky like rose petals.

"Come closer, closer."

I can smell

fresh perfume.

I'm excited to see her.

MR AND MRS AUTUMN

Crinkly skin like old leaves,

holding hands.

Their warm clothes

brown, green, red, gold.

They shuffle together

through the park

collecting conkers

for grandchildren.

Mr Autumn sucks a pipe.

The smoke smells like bonfires.

Resting on a bench of oakwood,

they munch apples

WINTER

Here comes Mr J Frost

tumbling down a snowy hill,

his round body

wrapped in icy blue wool.

He grabs my hand

with his fish fingers.

He sees right through me

with frozen pea eyes.

White hedgehog hair

like spiky needles.

"I'm coming to get you," he says.

I freeze. 

Fran Hill is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire. Poetry workshops are the only context in which you would find her listening to Vivaldi. She prefers the Beatles and reggae. 

Her latest book 'Miss, What Does Incomprehensible Mean?' is a funny teacher memoir written in diary form. It charts a typical year in her English teacher life and can be found at Amazon in paperback and Kindle or from SPCK Publishing. You can find out more at her website here