WILD NATURE POETRY AWARD competition now open.

Veronica Aaronson lives in a quiet haven in South Devon.  She started writing poetry for her grandchildren.


Veronica is the co-founder and one of the organisers of the Teignmouth Poetry Festival, runs open mic evenings in Teignmouth and produces ‘Pzazz’, a yearly magazine showcasing the work of local poets, which features as an event at the festival.

Cover artwork by Gay Anderson




138 x 216mm


60 pages


£9.99 + P&P UK


ISBN 978-1-910834-96-1


PUB: 12/11/2018










Nothing About The Birds

Is Ordinary This Morning


Veronica Aaronson



The Isle of Iona acts as the unifying thread for Veronica Aaronson’s collection which emphasise the importance of connecting with and appreciating nature to better understand ourselves. The opening theme, to which she returns, is the bee sting with which she arrives on the island, and implicit in her poems is both the nature of 'hive mind' and the metaphor of these endangered insects for our own times.



thumbnail_Veronica amend 9781910834961

“Veronica Aaronson’s  poems are lit with a deep luminosity – and numinosity.   Striking in her delicate, passionate collection is her subtle juxtaposition of description of the natural world with human concerns, griefs and at times cruelties.  

She asks us to look, and look again.

A fine collection to which you will want to return.”

Roselle Angwin


“In Veronica Aaronson’s collection the human and natural world converge in accurate description, where empathy and wisdom emerge in equal measure.

There is much beauty in the detail and her use of colour imagery in the poems can be astonishing.  

Her  authentic observations of human character can transform a seemingly ordinary experience into something remarkable, with a quality of transcendence.

This is achieved by lines often handled deftly with a touch as light as a song bird on the wing.”

Susan Taylor

If Only …


On the coastal path where fierce gusts expose

white underbellies of bramble leaves, shake

heather and gorse, flap scarves, puff out jackets,

my eyes home in on the small frame of a kestrel

taking on the wind.


This falcon hangs over the exact same spot

as if it’s fixed in place by invisible wires.  

Its concentration so alive its wings and tail feathers

find their own way to twist and turn in tune

with the turbulent air.  


If I could hold my ground, face the gale

of his bluster, maybe my lips could find their way

to tell him how it is for me.  The image runs,

re-runs.  I no longer feel the cold, hear the sea

hurling abuse at the cliffs.




Mixed Portfolio after Death


I am the cartographer;

I map the face of the son who has lost his father –

the sinkholes, avalanches, volcanoes,

the doldrums that intervene

between endless emails.


I am part of the production team;

I help sort out venue, costumes, scenery,

resuscitate forgotten Old Testament hymns,

produce the script for the last curtain call

before the main character exits to Verdi’s Requiem.


I am the art curator;  

I am dismantling a temporary collection –

Swedish bookcase, hand woven carpets,

pairs of re-soled Church’s shoes,

wife’s lace-trimmed underwear,

yards of stacked-just-in-case yoghurt pots.


I am the meteorologist;

I forecast a slow moving cold front,

months of grey skies

interspersed with sudden storms

and downpours.




Reflections on Narcissus


I’d like to pull this son of a river god out of the mud,

hose him down.  I think he’s been maligned –

think about it, how often does pond water stay as still as glass?


There’s pitter-pattering of drizzle, pummeling of storm,  

rippling as demoiselles land on waterlily leaf,

tadpoles hide from heron, water boatmen row, row, row.


Maybe it was the different qualities of light, essence of water,

chance to hear fern’s breath that held him there.


Maybe he fell in love with every face he saw – wrinkled faces,

flat faces with long chins, squashed noses, stretched mouths.

Maybe he was the first enlightened being.


Maybe Narcissus shouldn’t be associated with a disordered

personality.  After all, if you look at the flower you’ll see

a yellow halo surrounds its tiny face.

Come and Go of Relationships


Yesterday Mull’s landscape was seductive,

wind’s salty smell was tinged with

zest of sea kale, horned wrack.  

A small spot of sunlight shone on the sea,

like a shoal of silver fish celebrating,

or rippled mercury.


Today goose down snow is falling

as if Cailleach and her hags

are ripping into each other

with over-stuffed pillows.

Congealing clouds

dull smells, quell sounds;

Mull is veiled,

then shrouded

in white.




Nothing about the Birds is Ordinary this Morning


With the whole sky available

a rook trailing straw in its beak

passes so close to my face we


almost collide and the sparrows

that take flight each morning

from the willow opposite


St Oran’s Chapel stay put

and several steps further

a  swarm of starlings fly low –


crown me with iridescence,

land on a nearby fence

and even though the rhythm


of my footsteps is out of tune

with their tiny heartbeats, they

don’t even twitch as I pass by,


behave as if I am one of them,

accept me without checking

whether I have wings,


or sing starlingeze, their gaze

so trusting, so generous,

I feel del-i-cious,


can taste my own sweetness,

like the early days

of a new love.




On the Edge


Together they walk.


For him, the khaki lake holds

shape-shifting shadows of New York skyline,

towers ripple-cut by squabbling helmeted ducks,

fractured limbs of alder provide hide for fleshy predators,

hanging, watching, waiting to strike

while bulrushes march unnoticed into water’s territory.


For her, walking in different shoes,

the green lake is full of life,

a breathing space, a delight.