poetry diary

My daughter wouldn’t believe Mrs Robinson of Rotherham was to blame
for the fires across Europe and the East,
but the antennae on her chimney were a clue
and the screens in the kitchen all showed blue.

In the mornings she was seen – in the high street, at the zoo,
feeding pigeons and taking tea – two cups
normally – she liked routine, and afterwards went
across the park to catch the bus, no fuss.

And then, at home she worked the web – a whisper here and twitter there
to stir her friends and hatch some plots; to sow
the seeds of discord and mischief. It was quite fun
for several years, she found, eating her buns.

Until one day her tweet trended and struck a chord, igniting more
than she expected. Hmmm. Maybe at last
she had discovered something new and true.
But people died sometimes, and others flew.

Mrs Robinson of Rotherham still surfs the web these days,
but is more knowing now. She still plays tease
but having found the art of making fire
quite tough, she sticks to poems, and has retired.

A tongue in cheek (?) response to wewritepoems prompt 48, the art of making fire, based on a real life discussion with my daughter about her history assignment -“What was the cause of the Cold War?”. Her essay took a different tack.