Author Archives: Anne Douglas

About Anne Douglas

I was born in Chester in the nineteen fifties and travelled to the Orient with my parents, where I lived for nearly seven years. It was here that I have very happy memories of my childhood. The climate was always favourable except during the monsoon season and life out there was very different to the life in England. Since Returning to the country, I have lived in North Wales near my family and I have travelled to Africa, Arabia and to Israel, (since my childhood days,) with my employment as a qualified staff nurse and then as a nursing sister. I have never written any poetry before 2012/13 and it is an enjoyment for me and a good past time. I had a small anthology of prose printed in winter, 2014; it was my first attempt. I am quite proud of this, too. I wish all the Cross Border Poets members success in their poetry and their prose. Anne Douglas

The Bees must have a name for it

With the cries of the birds
Perhaps the honey-guide bird
I come across a flounce of red flowers
In a pearlescent dusk
The bees must have a name for it
Lazy-blowing fragrance
Of the carnation border
Or of the bean blossom
They must have a name for it too
In bee language
Honey flowers
Here and there
More and more
As the branch
Peeps over the garden wall
Until at length~
With a final kiss from the sun
Tiny fragranced flowers close
And night has come






My Little Blue Boy

Little blue boy
Sitting upon your perch
Till well enough
To trill
And trill
You did
At the top of your voice
All day long
And then through stroke
You could no longer fly
But you still chortled
And chortle you did
Until the end

The Glass Blower

The Glass Blower

I could be a glass blower!
And I would blow beautiful shapes,
Watching bubbles forming,
In the hot glass,
I would watch bubbles fizz,
And dissolve into smaller shapes,
And from within,
I would watch hot dyes,
Infuse and diffuse,
Forming beautiful colours,
The glass would light up,
Into its new shape,

When I became a Cloud






When I became a cloud


When I became a cloud

I recall floating

Across a vast sky


I loved the breeze

And the great winds

When I would race across the aether

At great knots

And with my arms outspread

Dancing, joyously

~ Cumulus

Just waiting there

For some small angel to appear

And to descend

Eternal spirit

All dressed in white




My Blue Moth

With pale blue wings
Sitting on my wall
I went right up to it
I observed it
And I even spoke to it
But not even a movement
Did it make
It just stayed right there
Where it remained for hours
And in observation of this lovely sight
I opened the window
After a while
In the morning it was gone
And I never came across
My friend again
 The moth

The Stranger


I became enamoured
With this stranger
When he appeared on my doorstep
I was so charmed
As he stood there
In his black and white apparel
With haunting eyes
With his dark furry boots
And his white socks
Looking at me
Without uttering
He seemed to ask
May I have a bite to eat
Taken aback by the forthrightness
Of this stranger
As he walked in
With the softness
Of his footsteps
And his likeable air
I thought
Aha, I had a found a friend
And with that I bent to give my friend supper
I liked my new found friend
The cat



The Blue Moth

With pale blue wings
Seated on my wall
I went right up to it
I observed it
And I even spoke to it
But not a movement
Did it make
It just stayed right there
It remained for ages like this
In observation of this lovely sight
I opened the window
On this night
But in the morning
It was gone
And I never came across
My moth-friend again!


My Blue Tanzanite



In its setting
Blue, blue azure
In its gallery
Of gold
Pure gold
With facets of colour
Scintillating through
The gemstone
Beaming almost
With its diamond
Accented shoulders
Bright, bright
Like a diamond
My precious tanzanite ring

All in a Day’s Work

I am the wind which blows, I know no bounds, My strength is infinite, My wings  sometimes take me to the four corners of the earth, From the cold of the eastern European Steppe, To the South African buschland or veldt, Or to the Kenyan savannah, Where I find I rarely wish to blow, Or to the States, And back to the deserts of the Gobi, Namib, Kalahari and Sahara, Where rarely do I let out a breath from my lungs, When I am like a sandstorm, Then, I like to whistle at the top of my voice, And to make me even more formidable, I love being a tornado, I love the damage I cause, The rooves ripped off for instance, I love to tear down houses with my ‘bare hands’, I gloat when people disappear from beneath the rubble, Aaaahhh, all in a days work, That is my motto, And when it comes to that phrase, inclement weather, I whistle this tune, ‘Blow the wind southerly, southerly, Blow the wind softly, softly’…     6 September, 2014   There is an ellipsis at the end of the last line because the poem needs to sound as if it is not properly ended and the last two lines need to be sung softly and cynically, because the wind can cause unfinished and untold damage.