February Poems Leaflet

Our February poems leaflet published in 2020 and distributed from at London Underground stations includes some personal favourites and reflections on the natural world and the human imagination.
In their highly individual voices, the poets gathered together here all affirm the enduring value of the written word.
We hope readers who have met the poems on the Tube will enjoy them as they return to the printed page.

You can see all the poems from leaflet below, or see a copy of our February Poems leaflet

Thaw by Edward Thomas

Thaw, Edward Thomas ' Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed The speculating rooks at their nests cawed And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass, What we below could not see, Winter pass'

February – not everywhere by Norman MacCaig

February-not everywhere by Norman MacCaig (1910-96) ' Such days, when trees run downwind, their arms stretched before them. Such days, when the sun's in a drawer and the drawer locked. When the meadow is dead, is a carpet, thin and shabby, with no pattern and at bus stops people retract into collars their faces like fists. -And when, in a firelit room, a mother looks at her four seasons, at her little boy, in the centre of everything, with still pools of shadows and a fire throwing flowers. '

Honesty by Kit Wright

Promise by Jackie Kay

Promise by Jackie Kay: Remember, the time of year when the future appears like a blank sheet of paper a clean calendar, a new chance. On thick white snow you vow fresh footprints then watch them go with the wind’s hearty gust. Fill your glass. Here’s tae us. Promises made to be broken, made to last.'

Perseverance by Marin Sorescu translated by D.J. Enright

Sonnet 98 by William Shakespeare

Prayer For My Father as a Child by Miriam Nash

Fear by Ciaran Carson

The Gulls by Jacob Polley

The Trees by Philip Larkin

The Trees ,Philip Larkin 1997 poems on the Underground poster 'The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.'