What is the colour of Spring?

Is it white?

The snowdrop dresses in purity,

Yet flirts with white skirts frilled with green;

And snow falls in March, Spring’s first month.


What is the colour of Spring?

Could it be blue,

That patch between lumbering grey clouds;

‘Enough to make a sailor a pair of trousers’?

Bells swing blue on the dance floor of the wood

And a carpet of colour careses the eye.


What is the colour of Spring?

Can it be green?

Yes: Surely green must be the answer,

Tips and shoots pressing up eager from earth:

Buds straining bulbous from bark of branch,

Still hiding inside their overcoats of green.


But, outside the wall, beside the path

Of our village Science Park ,

With its strange smelling chemicals

And counting machines,

Melbourn shows us her true colours of Spring:

Yellow. A nodding and smiling yellow,

As daffodils wave, dance in the Wordsworth way.

A melody of yellow their trumpeting brings:

I see them; I hear them; my heart sings.


Yvonne Chamberlain

February 2018




Is winter the time to get the blues?

To wish you were in summer’s shoes?

Each season has a colour

Predominant; a memory to harbour.

Clear blue sky, bright and clean

Contrasts with the white snow’s sheen.

Blue cracks in the Polar ice

Crevasses open wide in winter’s vice.

A brilliant meteor, electric blue

Streaks across the firmanent in a vivid hue.

In a blue velvet midnight sky

A star sparkles brightly, refusing to die.

Outside, at Christmas, the LED lights

Flicker blue, lighting up the nights.

Christianity’s Virgin dresses in blue;

To see Mary the visitors queue.

Blue anti-freeze, de-icer in a can

Is needed now for car and van.

Fingers numb and blue with cold

Need snug mitts, letting warmth take hold.

Inside, at the party, blue Curacao cocktail

In a sugar frosted glass flushes faces once pale.

Blueberry muffins and Blue Nun wine

Makes everyone feel warm and supine.

Blue lights flashing on the ambulance

Momentarily show up faces askance,

Rushing to chaos on the motorway;

Thank God no one died today.

At the concert, the gowns glisten blue

In the orchestra of Andre Rieu.

There’s a lot of blue in Winter today;

Don’t let the blues get in your way!


Yvonne Chamberlain

December 8th 2017


Floating through space, falling , falling:

Cut off; broken; abandonned ; let go and helpless,

Falling to touch a new Universe

Alien and uncomfortable to my lofty senses.

I am dying, my veins are shrivelling.

I am shivering,

Separated from the entity

That no longer needs me, the organic lung.

I have played my part.

In my dying moment

My purpose now to be a chameleon:

Change my colour; say goodbye;

Show a see-through pattern of lace,

Baring the structure of my soul.

Unhinged. Unfastened. Set free.

At the mercy of whirling force,

Nibbling teeth,

And wetness, decay, elimination and death.

But that death will not be in vain;

I return to beginnings, new life to succour again.


Yvonne Chamberlain

October 30th 2017



Darkness settles over the virgin snow

Enhancing twilight with a quiet glow.

A muffled world breathes silently;

Time freezes, caught inadvertently.


Winter’s inroad lays its claim

Smoothing out the rutted lane,

Opening the way for newborn tracks,

First footfall, an imprint of tentative acts.


A tableau caught in black and white:

Fence post, telephone pole, stark in the night.

Winter covers our summer dreams,

Unrolling a pathway in snowy reams.


Nature’s purity awaits violation

By human, bird and animal, Earth’s population.

Upon us now the winter of the soul.

A time for closure, a time to be whole.


Yvonne Chamberlain

October 9th 2017



I took my new love to meet an old love

And the new love fell in love.

The old love smiled, and with open arms

Graced the new with atmospheric charms.


Heacham beach stretched wide and free,

Unaltered, loved by the child in me;

The child that fell in love

Returning as an adult, still in love.


Hand in hand, my new love and me

Strolled and reminisced by that sea,

And my old love gave again

To my new love a memory to retain.


We took photos, crunched amongsts the stones,

Stooped and pocketed the sea’s old bones:

Coloured shells, large or tiny, all washed ashore,

A kaleidoscope over which to pore.


I took my new love to meet an old love,

Both new and old, now connected, still in love.


Yvonne Chamberlain

October 27th 2017





Hope is a lie.

Hope is scary.

Hope brings disappointment.

Hope is wishful thinking.

Hope confuses reality and dreams.

Hope denies acceptance, therefore

Hope is denial of reality.

Hope is long odds.

Hope hinders recovery.

Hope is false–yet supposedly

Hope springs eternal.

Hope suffers that long.

Hope needs guarding against.

Hope tries to tempt.

Hope is insiduous, creeping through cracks.

Hope is secretive, hiding behind facts.

Hope is illusion, a mirage in the mind.

Hope is treacherous and unkind.

Hope lingers and will not die….

Hope is a lie.


Yvonne Chamberlain

September 11th 2017.

‘Written in darkness, searching for light.

The light will come, blinding bright’.

I sing

I sing of water and rolling seas

Winding rivers through valleys and leas

I sing of bubbling brooks and mountain streams

I sing of geysers where water steams

I write of raindrops falling from your hair

Dripping down your collar to neck laid bare

I sing of the waterfall recklessly rushing

Toppling from cliff top loudly gushing

I sing of sparkling bubbles, carbonated

That tickle the throat and thirst is slated

I write of rivulets on a windowpane

Running together, sliding apart, meeting again

I sing of the stuff of life,pure water

To the Earth Mother. ..a daughter.