Kay Medway
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kaymedway.bsky.social
Kay Medway
@kaymedway.bsky.social
530 followers 670 following 730 posts
I’m a library assistant and poet with work published in The Dirigible Balloon, Disabled Tales, Dreambeast Poems, and featured on Brian Moses’s blog. My poems are forthcoming in Scaryness Express.
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kaymedway.bsky.social
Going Through Old Photos @michaelrosenyes.bsky.social Poetry Workshop.

I wonder if that is why Granddad organised the variety of entertainment for the veterans club, and why my sister taught herself to sing too.

#poetry #poem
Me, my sister, my brother‑in‑law, and Granddad were going through the old photos in The Headlands pub. That is Pap’s photo, once in the museum exhibition, as the founder of the Northampton Veterans Social Club. The sign beside it mentions Nan, Betty Waterfield, married in the 1950s, as well as Granddad’s varied career throughout his life: railway engine cleaner, window cleaner. After Betty died, when he was in the garden once, he said a white butterfly would not leave him alone, hovering around his face. Betty was a singer, I already knew. “Can you sing?” he asked me. “A bit,” I replied. “It is all right to say if you cannot.” “I cannot, and I say it,” said my brother‑in‑law. I wonder if that is why Granddad organised the variety of entertainment for the veterans club, and why my sister taught herself to sing too. by Kay Medway
November 24, 2025 at 11:28 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem
I have been thinking how often, before someone sings, there will be an observation aloud that says, “You know, the person before you is a professional singer.” Well, I have put on my trier’s hat. You cannot fault the give‑it‑a‑go, the see‑how‑it‑goes momentum, the parcel of courage in wearing it. Do not worry about me. My experience is in lobster quatrains, as Gryphon in Alice in Wonderland, red face paint heavy, glitter waistcoat more shimmery than space, playing before the senior years at school. You never know when you will need to approach something in life with the same willingness to not take yourself too seriously. But do not worry about me. Either way, the songs must be sung. I love the chance, really.
November 24, 2025 at 7:49 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry
The most important poem I've wrote. Dear Kay, When you feel like everything is not going as well as it could of late, remember the mornings, three times a week, when you began, the commitment you had already shown, even if some might have thought it was less than others, the responsibility you carried. You did not do it for praise or rewards. After long volunteer morning shifts, you treated yourself to a hot sausage roll from Greggs underneath the office, before the walk home, dreaming volunteering would grow your C.V., enough for employment, and it did. Because as years passed, seeming similar to the one before and without positive change, you got better, and you still remember. In one of a series of interviews that changed your life at age twenty‑five, they asked you to give an example of when you had provided an excellent level of customer service. As an adult volunteer in a bureau, you had interviewed to discover who needed an appointment for full advice, who needed signposting, and who could be helped with self‑help materials. A bureau of every solution, where you learned to write reports of what had been asked, told, looked up, explained, advised, a satisfying arc of conclusion and achievement. Yours faithfully, A voice who began as a volunteer.
November 24, 2025 at 11:43 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry
What if the moon were a compact mirror, resting in a pearly case? At its snapping shut upon all the spirits, it locks the gremlins’ powers, and keeps on shattering across the skies, scattering silver shards and stones of light. What if the sun were a shield, engulfed in flames? It guards the one who stands behind, holding it high as protection. A fire rises from a fearsome hearth, blazing with untamed strength. What if the clouds were soft, fluffy arm rests on giant’s chairs? Giant-sounding dins of stomping boots overhead, until in the chairs giants rest. What if the tree were a person, tall and from an ancient land, its chin tilted high beneath the brim of a sun hat, an all-around crown of emerald leaves? Yet when it speaks, it drowns out in muffled rounds. What if the bee were sun colour, and night-sky colour beads in a stripey painting? Its yellow stripes, the only lights. What if the flower were a bright serviette, with folds and creases of beauty, arranged in a thin green glass on a fairy’s dinner table, where ghostly guests, uninvited, reappear.
November 24, 2025 at 8:45 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
brian-moses.blogspot.com?m=1
#poem #poetry

What if the flower were a bright serviette,  
with folds and creases of beauty,  
arranged in a thin green glass  
on a fairy’s dinner table?
What if the moon were a compact mirror,   resting in a pearly case   that snapped shut?   What if the sun were a shield,   engulfed in flames,   guarding the one who stands behind   and holding it high?   What if the clouds were soft,   fluffy arm rests   on giant’s chairs?   What if the tree were a person,   tall and from an ancient land,   its chin tilted high beneath the brim of a sun hat,   an all-around crown of emerald leaves?   What if the bee were sun colour   and night‑sky colour beads   in a stripey painting?   What if the flower were a bright serviette,   with folds and creases of beauty,   arranged in a thin green glass   on a fairy’s dinner table?  
November 23, 2025 at 12:53 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry #poetrycommunity
November 23, 2025 at 12:46 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry
We called her Jaffa. My first friend and Granddad’s neighbour added Foxy, because she said her parents thought they heard a fox outside but it was her. Fern was her name, and Medway River was added last. We shared the caring of her, but oh, for her to be a cat in that farm wood sized garden, in the holly acre cottage, with violets and bells. I would not want her brought away, as I would not, if in a cottage, I lived there.
November 22, 2025 at 6:03 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem

In 1994, my sister was brought home,
her pram a fun colour blue,
with well‑suited squiggles
in orange and mauves.

Walking over the bridge,
I would watch the navy blue wheels,
till Mum sat, holding her,
in my room,
as the door downstairs
was knocked by the neighbour.
In 1994, my sister was brought home, her pram a fun colour blue, with well‑suited squiggles in orange and mauves. Walking over the bridge, I would watch the navy blue wheels, till Mum sat, holding her, in my room, as the door downstairs was knocked by the neighbour. Will you answer it? She is too young for visitors yet. We have the same blood, we must see her first, Mum said.
November 22, 2025 at 5:31 PM
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#poetry #poem #weather #skies
November 22, 2025 at 8:09 AM
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#poem #poetry
November 21, 2025 at 8:36 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
Your excellent poem reminds me of when I used to play, too.

#poem
We were energised into action by a certain TV theme tune. A quick jump from the giant rug up high to a soft chair, never sitting too close to the chair’s edge. No legs must dangle. No feet too near the carpet. We had to run fast, though why we never truly knew. Happy times of simple fun.
November 21, 2025 at 3:58 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem

The sun is like a giant’s bun of red hair on top of her head.

The clouds are soft armrests of a giant’s chair.

The heat is like her coat wrapping around the shoulders of earth, warming all around.
Giant's Sky House by Kay Medway The sun is like a giant’s bun of red hair on top of her head. The clouds are soft armrests of a giant’s chair. The heat is like her coat wrapping around the shoulders of earth, warming all around. The dark is a lining of a giant’s magician cape. The wind is her sigh. The snow is her ice cream dripping from a cone in a summer where she is. The stars are sparkles of earrings worn by giants at a dance. The drumming of rain is her percussion.
November 21, 2025 at 1:02 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry #fairy
I've found a fairy in my purse. She is shimmery like a dragonfly, smaller than a tooth. Her hair is as heart-shaped as a leaf. Her wings were a handshake, ringing with the hush of a clock’s soft chime. She flew to the sunset’s pane of the window, rested on a vase, and raised her wand: “Worry not, your song will find its chance.” Then she flared like the spiky light of a sparkler, and vanished into autumn air.
November 21, 2025 at 12:22 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
Anthology

What makes a poem become a good neighbour?
Happiness were daughters living with a mother.

Excursion was emotional, often away in bursts and rarely home.
Readers will sense when poems will not settle well beside others.

#poem #poetry #poetrycommunity
Anthology by Kay Medway What makes a poem become a good neighbour? Happiness were daughters living with a mother. Excursion was emotional, often away in bursts and rarely home. Readers will sense when poems will not settle well beside others. Next door is a teacher speaking her skills in a language of postcards. Their nearest neighbour, a hairdresser on a break with bees in nature. A poem can be young, already in uniform, strict in school form. A poem can be a person dressed in a costume of an animal. A poem has the ability to sell in a shop, a star. A poem is noticing a lamp broken forever, still on a door. A poem has not heard from you before, each time after you read. A poem keeps speaking questions to you. A book of pages is replanted, dotted anywhere. What makes a poem become a good neighbour?
November 21, 2025 at 11:19 AM
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November 21, 2025 at 12:12 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
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In a charity shop I held in my hand an illustrated vintage green hardback of A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It had not been behind the glass cabinets, nor in the window, nor on auction online, nor overpriced. The shop was still. It was speaking to me, and it was right for me, after it was one of the few films watched in childhood on repeat: Miss Minchin, Sara Crewe, and Becky. Although I did not go so far as to buy the book, I was regretful, and I still approach its bookshop shelf more keenly, that I might find another treasure of such calibre, as when I was the first customer to discover my childhood calling me there.
November 20, 2025 at 5:29 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
A poem about collaboration. #poem #poetry
The nurse and assistant on the bay ward hover together, working that way always in their dances, strictly partners in twos. Some wear pink smocks, others their own smart long black cardigans and clothes. Two present to repeat and take the first of a succession of blood tests, two for the ECG, one who calls the doctor quickly if you faint. Two for me, one for the group of patients as a whole walking on the grounds, two for the short walk to the library, two for the quiz, sandwiches before bed, serving meals, the worksheets, colouring, painting the nails, offering magazines, CDs, and therapies. The morning wake-up call, a reminder of the time getting on, no sleeping longer here. This isn’t a holiday.
November 20, 2025 at 3:20 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
I wrote the first things about fairies that came to my mind. #poem #poetry
I found a fairy in my purse. She looked like a dragonfly, smaller than a tooth. Her hair was heart-shaped as a leaf. Her wings were a handshake; they sounded like a quiet alarm clock’s insistent rings. She flew towards a red pane of a window. She landed on a vase, lifted her wand, and said, “Worry not, you will sing to a newest chance.” Then she was like the spiky light of a sparkler, and then she was gone in autumn. by Kay Medway
November 20, 2025 at 12:05 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem
Missing: Renee Poem after James Carter Has anyone seen my muscular, black-greying wolf, as lean as she is quickest, fleasome and fearable, Renee, my city-smartest wolf? She glares over her shoulder at our black, webbed twist of gates. She flames, she coaxes stories and myths from her watchful place in the mountain dunes. I hear her still, sometimes, in the drumbles sounding from our feet. She is as beautiful as she is boastful, as hungry as she is shorn, as matted as she is fluorescent. Please tell me, have you seen my one muscular, black-greying wolf, my wolf? by Kay Medway
November 20, 2025 at 11:29 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem #poetrycommunity
Has anyone seen my muscular, black-greying wolf, as lean as she is quickest, medal-faring, cheer-cheerable, Renee, my city-smartest wolf? She glares over her shoulder at our black, webbed twist of gates. She flames, she coaxes stories and myths from her watchful place in the mountain dunes. I hear her still, sometimes, in the drumbles sounding from our feet. She is as beautiful as she is boastful, as hungry as she is shorn, as matted as she is fluorescent. Please tell me, have you seen my one muscular, black-greying wolf, my wolf? by Kay Medway
November 20, 2025 at 11:15 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry

Home from the garden centres,
home from the October street’s fun fair,
home from the holiday’s ferry ride home,
I’d have my seat on her settee
a seat beside my great grandma.
Home from, home from, home from…
Home from the garden centres, home from the October street’s fun fair, home from the holiday’s ferry ride home, I’d have my seat on her settee a seat beside my great grandma. Home from, home from, home from… It’s how I imagine I learnt to talk: confident, aloud, clearer and clearer for grandma wearing her hearing aid. I talked to her about the rabbits I held near the plants— their colours white and grey the dogs I dreamed mum would buy for us with my birthday money from cards, the dinosaur in the film at the cinema, the cracks in pavements I thought they had somehow caused. Rabbits, dogs, dinosaurs, pavements… She took me to get my ears pierced, waiting in the pharmacy on chairs for wheeled trays of tiny gold and green gem studs. Gold and green, gold and green… “Handwashing is always important,” she said, giving her example before touching the bread. Handwashing is always important… before touching the bread. My, I wish she could be a hundred-year-old great grandma, who, when home from hospital, told me: “I help you. I’ll look after you for as long as I can.” I’ll look after you… for as long as I can.
November 20, 2025 at 6:30 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem #poetrycommunity

Home from the garden centres,
home from the October street’s fun fair,
home from the holiday’s ferry ride home,
I’d have my seat on her settee,
a seat beside my great grandma.
Home from, home from, home from...
Home from the garden centres, home from the October street’s fun fair, home from the holiday’s ferry ride home, I’d have my seat on her settee, a seat beside my great grandma. Home from, home from, home from... It’s how I imagine I learnt to talk, confident, aloud, clearer and clearer for grandma wearing her hearing aid. I talked to her about the rabbits I held near the plants, their colours white and grey, the dogs I dreamed mum would buy for us with my birthday money from cards, the dinosaur in the film at the cinema, the cracks in pavements I thought they had somehow caused. Rabbits, dogs, dinosaurs, pavements... She took me to get my ears pierced, waiting in the pharmacy on chairs for wheeled trays of tiny gold and green gem studs. Gold and green, gold and green... “Handwashing is always important,” she said, giving her example before touching the bread. Handwashing is always important... before touching the bread. My, I wish she could be a hundred-year-old great grandma, who, when home from hospital, told me: “I help you. I’ll look after you for as long as I can.” I’ll look after you... for as long as I can.
November 20, 2025 at 12:06 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem #poetrycommunity
Quiet, Celebrated, Kind after Elizabeth Kuelbs Quiet things win. Roots hidden underneath the flowerings of the plants or trees, rainbowed wools turned into creation by the work of creative hands. Celebrated things win. Poems with their praises illustrated on the stage of a well-read magazine, festivals of winter markets with stalls. Kind things win. A small silver star falling out of a card written for you, a hello to you, an anthem. by Kay Medway
November 19, 2025 at 9:24 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem
Circles can become a twist of a garland of round lights strung. If it’s a little glass pot of Grandma's with a lid you will draw around, wibbles in a circle won’t matter; they will still make for her a robin. A robin red breast with beak, tail, and wing, a pompom on her hat, starts simply with your pencilled circle. So does a penguin: begin with a circle, then add two triangles for feet. There you have already two birds in colours at Christmas, either red or black. Or a seal from a circus with loops on his tail, with joy at your drawing of upon him a face. Cats in party style crowns and hats, dot of red on a reindeer or dogs, spiky hand of a wave from the friendliest Christmas monster in mauve.
November 19, 2025 at 4:45 PM
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#poetry #poem
Beige stones, grey bricks. Rain drenches, falls, keeps falling upon the webs strung between a gate’s twists of black iron, or upon a long green braid of bowing grass. White, with sandy-coloured patches above his eyes, a kitten in a lane with the others of his litter, their furs of colours, I think, beside the farmer’s house.
November 19, 2025 at 1:24 PM