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whispering trees heavy with fruit, over purling steams and dimpled lakes, A poet, dipping his pen into the ink that writes of pure images in the urn of truth, Writing besotted letters, of imperishable brightness, weighing immortality of nature. Having the wisdom of nature suited to the right regulation and adjustment to changes, That exists in man to understand the beauties of nature not just on a summer morning, Nights are spent in the midnight oil chasing words to express the beauty we all see, Words to highlight understanding to enhance desires and refinements to see as the poet. Revelations not beyond reach to bring beautiful scenes into homes the true philosophy, When philosophy acknowledges the unlimited range of its sphere bringing light to all, Whose posy has charmed the fancy and whose works have enriched the world of letters, Many poets whose eloquence has astonished even only a few, the researches are reward.
Once upon a Time It's raining I look at my window and wonder is it wrong to think so fondly of my youth, Is it wrong to keep on looking so tenderly back to younger days to my ‘once upon a time,’ An old fool, a sentimentalist thinking so perseveringly, looking and lingering behind me, I love the joy of my gentle pastime I would do it anyway despite whatever people may say. I love the fragrances gone, these days, of flowers in the spring tide of my old past life, Before the blooms were ruined by the dust of the hard turnpike road where life changed me, I have many tender memories of years long gone, if they have been gilded, it’s my own gilt, My memories are my memories, they are more precious to me even than the air I breathe today. Remembering locking hands and pressing on the grass on which I started to learn to walk, And my early school days where an eager mind soaked up knowledge and never discrimination, Understanding words little ones at first and feeling good with a gold star in my workbook, Making friends, learning while playing games on sweet green grass in a wonderful innocence. So who cares if I fly high upon the wings of my memories souring over good days long gone, Back to the earliest scenes of my innocent boyhood days when time was made of purest gold, The pictures in my mind hang before me colorful moments carved into the hardest of stone, So can you see why I must recall these days, if I turn my head they will be snatched away.
Across Fair Fields Run across the fair fields, as fast as you can run, the fields your grandmother ran as a young girl, Over long lush dark green grasses, whipping your knees, soft spongy turf springs each new step, To stop where fast flowing streams rush and dance to the wind, a sweat breaking out on your face, All out of breath kneeling by the bank of a brook, a stitch in your side, corn waves like a gentle sea. By the brook with childhood friends enjoying sweet company watching spring as her beauty unfolds, To walk across wet water mead’s, seeing glades in their finest clothes, to a meadow, in full flower, Rolling in grass making camps sitting legs crossed as warm summer breezes temper-sweating brows, Making sure you sit next to the one you care for most, nothing will be as good as this day ever again. Playing in the meadows where your grandmother played, picking daisies, making very long chains, Holding buttercups up to chins to see if they shine, then laughing, shouting out loud when they do. Playing kiss chase, slightly slowing down, when the one you want to be kissed by is chasing you, Under old pear blossom trees, flushed rosy red cheeks sitting next the one who is your first love. Laying in high grass chin in cupped hands, it is so special this lovely day will be yours for all time, Just staring at friends, full of innocence and so happy, this romantic time can never be repeated, Unplanned moments where beautiful things just happen it’s your youth just enjoy the here and now, Where everything is brighter has more colour, smells from the meadows become a memory for life. Laying on your back staring at turquoise watery skies, listening to the silence, a perfect sunny day, Heaths meeting small woods surrounded by greenest carpets only seen by a child’s pure innocence, Give your heart and soul to this day enjoy natures gifts, your end of days will recall these moments, Falling asleep in the December of your life, this last dream your friends will be there waiting for you. So gather these thoughts, tie them up in a bow, put them safely in a corner of yesterday’s thoughts, And walk again with your dear young friends in those happy times golden hair fluttering in the breeze, Back to days of cotton dresses and turned-up jeans with baggy shirts, nobody noticed or even cared, Hold your sweethearts hand once again and run across the fair fields where your grandmother ran.
Winters Magic Wand What dreams of beauty or wildest imagination could ever match these wonderful ageless scenes, Of a fairy tale forest glittering and sparkling in an evergreen mead showing off its silvery pines, A blue diamond frost bathed in the whitest moonlight, backed by a trillion bright twinkling stars. The foliage of the trees touched by winter’s magic wand, from an ice queen on a cold January night, As a boy I saw these nights in the clear sky and it looked like a dome with blue lighted candles, Reflecting off a frosted carpet that glinted and dazzled sometimes catching a roe deer’s wide eyes In those long gone days I felt no cold watching a fairy tale wonder of a cold clear, sharp night, But these moments have misted in my older years, my wiser years, but never completely forgotten. Speeding to old age wisdom is my gift I was uncluttered and so very much wiser back in those days, I sometimes try to think hard about my boyhood memory but it needs a clear mind for clear sight, Taking me back to the meadows in time staring in wonder at those silvery sparkly evergreen trees, Again I think as a young boy who does not feel the cold, smelling scents from frozen pine needles. My future is written and I understand why the memory of this night must be so very vivid today, Because I know when those final moment arrive my eyes gently cloud, and close for the last time, I will dream a twilight dream between both of my worlds' then soar back upon the winds of time, To stand again in evergreen woods reliving my moonlit scenes, again still not feeling the cold.
Scythe’s Ringing in the Fields Sitting watching a June summer king establish his reign over hazy hills and dusty dales, I could just hear a sharpened scythe's ring across green fields cutting away at the corn, With the hustle and bustle of the annual hay-harvesters bringing home a brand new season, Happy sunburned workers work the open fields gazing skywards smiling at the noonday sun. Hay hangs out to dry in the trees of the narrow footpath's and down haw thorny little lanes, Everything now prepared and Mr.Summer rolls up his sleeves working to help with harvesting, Each person delighting in deep cool grass in the shaded part an abstract of lovely flowers, Then paddle in a cool stream washing the chaff dust from feet thus ending a hard days work. The shadows of leaves dance along the streams a silhouette waltzes upon the silvery water, Lovely azure crowfoot salutes from a bank to a forget-me-not an old friend from last year, A purple compfrey dips its leaves to sweeten the water joined by a warm and gentle breeze, The birds sing from the trees and in the hedgerows while the nightingale tweets a sad tune. On trees chestnuts begin to grow and acorns young and green sitting in their little cups, The nuts from the hazel and the apples on trees in orchards promise a ripe autumn harvest, Gooseberries for pies, currants and strawberries ripen growing in the hedges of old lanes, June has taken his fair turn making spring shoots grow strong, ready for the later fruits. The cuckoo departs and glow worms emerge on a summer's night and glows a tiny little glow, Along heath and over the meadows across landscaped fields dotted with pretty wild flowers, The June summer heat gives strength to nature making grass lime green next to red poppies, As the summer harvest quietens the work nearly done people rest and reflect on golden mead's.
Where has Hope Gone Follow a path and it will get rougher as you go, but don't let that stop you, Daffodils will be thick and yellow on both sides let golden colors guide you, The daffodils will disappear at the woods a green wall of spring will appear, Here the path is just footprints in lush grass the smell of spring is strong. There will be acres and acres of thick bluebells the scene will lift you heart, Bluebells and the trees will darken your way follow the yellow rods of sunlight, Sit awhile cast your eyes upon this place of classical beauty a sight to behold, The perfume of leaf mold competes with the different scents of woodland flowers. Be on your way after a good rest by now you should hear the sound of running water, A background noise an orchestra to join the bird song high up in the top branches, Camped by the side a tiny brook a man called Hope will shake your hand very warmly. With bright blue eyes and white hair and a dazzling smile will make you most welcome. His name is Hope the Hermit he will invite you to sit and enjoy a cup of leaf tea, Stories make your heart sing but there is a sad side Hope hides away from people, I sat with Hope for what seemed like hours listening to stories of his wonderful life, He had knowledge about every subject we talked about his words like beautiful poetry. The sun went down behind the tops of trees so it was time to head for home before dark, I followed the path back to my village my thoughts and body full of gladness and joy, Going to bed that night I could not sleep Hopes words opened my eyes to a new world, Tomorrow I will go and visit my new friend we will talk about things and enjoy the day, A caring lovely world a world where you could see delight in the smallest of things, I could not wait for the sun to rise to go back to see my new friend deep in the woods, I walked the same footpath the daffodils were gone no carpets of bluebells in the wood, There was no camp beside a brook no golden rods of sunlight just a wood Hope had gone.
Snowfall In a small hamlet people were outside their dwellings staring up at a heavy black sky, Wind lashed the trees and front doors a big storm was about to happen and very soon, Small ice flakes whipped up in the wind stinging eyes I had a big dewdrop on my nose, After some time the blackened sky opened the winds raged and the snow began falling. Like a roaring bear gusts of winds blew the nearby sea sending salty spray to join snow, The wind sweeping across the land fiercely blowing gales loosening objects in its path, An old man curled up against his fire heavy snow swept under his door and over his eaves, As snow started to fall harder the flakes were huge swirling in blustery bitter cold winds. That night was so cold every one went to collect logs for a fire smoke rose from chimneys, Figures seen in silhouette behind lighted icy windows, doors were bolted the eaves blocked, Friends gathered in each other's houses sipping wine their singing muffled by high winds, The worst storm that many could recall elders told stories of bigger storms tongue in cheek. All night long snow fell in the morning villagers went outside to see the damage caused, The sun shone with such brightness the blue sky and the carpets of snow hurt their eyes, Icy snow was very deep and big white chunks of frozen snow stuck to bottoms of shoes, A tall tree stood in the middle of the hamlet heavy lines of snow bent its tough boughs. Stories circulating round firesides of travelers lost in great drifts on wild moorlands, Wanderers that had perished, frozen in the deep snow all lost in the snow laden woods, In the morning the snows stopped bringing sunny clear skies that shone like lapis lazuli, The wind whistled blowing top snow into a fine spray leaving a surface frosty and hard. There was a wonderful feeling walking along hedge-tops and across deep white valleys, All now filled and level, the frozen mass crunching under heavy steps in snow boots, Finding only the rivers showing themselves by their wintry hues amid trees and rocks, Visitors from the north the red wings, thrushes and field-fares flew back to their homes.
When I was a Boy When I was a boy, May eased into my wretched world opening her heavy golden doors, Warm days eased my life and sweetened harsh bitterness erased by her mighty beauty, A springtime landscape of magnificence with wonderful scenes repainted, re-gilded, Drawing open her veil, she led me into her majestic gardens to play and be happy. Meadows of strong green grass bend with late March winds but they are very strong, Uncombed hair whipped around my ears, flicked my eyelashes and blinded my view, Nature playing games with a sad, lonely, lost little soul, giving me her garden, Seasons understand everything, they see, hear, they have been here for all time. A garden full of trees, white, heavy with blossom, streams boiling over green rocks, All around is carpeted with myriads of mosses, flowers, each playing a starring role, Breezes diffuse the most delicious sweet and heady odors, that would haunt you forever, While the sun spreads his beams across the bluest of skies, he looks down, all is well. These days I sit in my rear garden, an old man, in the Christmas of a very long life, In a country lane sits a shadow of a man, shouldering a scythe, he gives a friendly wave, He waits for a man to tell a long story, he understands my memories, they must be right, He is a figure that used to scare me but now he will be my last, but very good friend. Sitting in the shade of an old crab apple tree, my eyes pass real time and I go back, Back to my youth where the sun is so bright I cannot lift my head it burns my bare neck, Powerful sunbeams brighten the clefts in hills and forests, warming damp hidden thickets, The day warms rivers, serene lakes, a world that will be soon be gone when builders arrive. This was my garden, if I chose to sink to my knees, bow my head, cry, it was my choice, There were strict rules, nobody points or laughs at suffering, ignorance stayed well away, A nightingale, might fly down and sing the most beautiful song ever sung,this was my world, He was my guardian, a friend with full understanding, bright clear eyes I will never forget. It is a warm morning and I rub my chin with the back of my leathery old hand on my stubble, There was a three day shadow under my chin, it rasped against my hand like a file on wood, I can feel and see everything so vivid, it is like going back round again to days gone by, And my dark friend waits patiently in the shadows, this time a little nearer, I feel at ease. My thoughts of the past are very strong, around me are wonderful hues of perfect amber green, Sitting in my garden I can touch the past, the beautiful limes with their sweeping branches, I can see a child in knee deep grass full of flowers, sycamores, humming full of honey bees, If I could just reach out and talk to the boy, tell him that his misery will not last forever. In my young days my life was hard, my father a nasty drunk my mother too scared to speak, The most hardest thing about cruelty is never knowing what to expect, when it would strike, Never being able to relax, hearing drunken brawls shouting at night, and screaming hatred. I would take myself to a rosy vale by a noble river to a willow island guarded by swans. In my world away from home nature was my castle, all was calm, all was safe and beautiful, Ditches filled with calthas and kingcups of emerald green, golden blossoms and cardamine, Some were white but each had such lovely flowers, that have lived on in my mind to this day, Memories of delightful peace in country glades made me strong it was my broad sword, my hope. When I did not want to go home I would go to my special place, just to sit and look around, Primroses gave me their welcome bloom across the commons, they would just smile and say hello, Sometimes there would be a thousand nightingales singing sweetly from their fairy forest, The cuckoo could be heard across the Mead's and fallow fields, this place was my real home. The sun disappears a shadow blocks my light, and as I focus it is my lovely smiling wife,
She puts a cup of coffee, and a biscuit on the small wooden table next to my outside chair, It breaks the spell and I am back to my seat under the crab apple tree my eyes moist, sad, She is my love my friend my guardian, my courage, my nightingale, my swan, she knows it all. In the bad days my mother would tell me to go, to sleep in the big woods, keep out the way, I had an old carpet up there in a well hidden thicket I would roll myself up and feel safe, My friends of the nighttime woods sat in branches near by and watched out for me, they cared, As the morning sun lifted itself on the horizon my birds showed their importance, they sang. Pools and streams are white with the water ranunculus, foxglove leaves are strong and firm, Insects flitting about visiting flowers and humming over the warm land, a butterfly is out, It is a red black spotted butterfly basking in the warm dusk of a stoney, dusty footpath, Elevating and depressing its wings as if drinking every spore of sun and the spirit of life. The ichneumon flies are out busy and alert, they have renewed fire, happiness in their veins, Gossamer is seen in this season covering the grass with its films of silken cottony threads, By the foot paths the common currant is beautiful with its pendant racemes still with flower, In days long, long ago I could not have named but a handful of flowers, I can now name all. But that did not matter, names are names only, if something warms your heart does it matter, If you met a stranger and sat down talking would he be a better person if his name was known, Some people I would trust with my life after few words others I know well, I would walk away, Beautiful people roam this world, just to meet such a person, would enrich a lifetime forever. Left alone in my chair under the apple tree my heart and eyes go into a fifty yard stare, Staring back to my past, the feeling is so strong, I believe time has turned back my clock, I can hear the sound of a rushing brook running and leaping through beauty with riotous joy, It twists and turns catching the sun the reflection hurts your eye, but you cannot look away. Again I can see the boy in luxuriant herbage, staring down at some of the dear old cowslips, He sits down by a hawthorn, it is bursting into flower, breathing air that is sweet and fresh, Things, so real I call out his name he looks around, then back to bank and the rushing water, He sits down by the lapsing waters, the grass and blossoms listening to music from each bough. I remember a poem I once wrote, it was very short but it had a huge effect on how things are, It was about a little bird caught in a cage, its cage up against a wall, dreaming of its past, It could remember the joys of flying through woods and trees, all his friends from the forest, This poem was in a book I wrote and it upset me so much I rewrote the book to free the bird. So here we are again back into my past, to my refuge, my castle the woods I loved so dearly, There the lesser butcher bird, the cockchaffer and a host of many other unseen birds sing, The woods were warm, the meadow saxifrage mingled amongst an ocean of beautiful bluebells, In this sea of blue with a wind brushing the bells against my legs is my memory of memories. Again so near I can smell rhododendrons, laburnums, lilacs, westerias and the yellow broom, Grass under my feet is cool and long, I touch the blossom of the late flowering apple tree, I carve a message on a small board of hard rosewood, be strong, it will all go away one day, And placed it by flattened grass at the riverside, under young green apples hanging overhead. Sitting remembering woods at bluebell time makes my eyes well, and a lump forms in my throat, When my friend puts his hand gently onto my shoulder,and gives a gentle squeeze it is my time, Flowers of the fields and forests must accompany me to my rest, I am going back to my home, To lay down with all my friends that cared for me, maybe a nightingale will sing a last song. My wife stays behind to say a last goodby and tidies some wild flowers she is always very neat, She takes a trowel and digs a little hole to plant some Spring bulbs and places a small font, She stands and looks over the plot making sure everything is in its correct place, as always, She remembers my lucky little rosewood board and lays it down in pride of place on the ground. It Reads, 'Be strong, it will all go away one day.'
At One With Nature
Wandering with friends through romantic and enchanting scenery the sun shines down on us, The day is cool and clear each step on spongy mossy ground makes us feel as light as the air, Finding our way along banks of a winding stream with each turn a fresh scene of loveliness, This beautiful walk gladdens the eyes and charms the heart as nature is shows us her pictures. While looking at these beautiful canvases of nature it is very hard to choose which is the best, And looking at the glowing landscape a friend points towards a display of even more beauty, In this scene there is nothing to say but just look at what is around us each turn makes us glow, We feel the happiness of nature unfolding her gifts and you just know she has a winsome smile. And as we walk further along a summer glade we nestle deeper into the bosom of mother earth, Mountains and cowslips and the good old daisies join the purple heather laid out like a carpet. The feeling is that nature is not exhausted yet she has many more treasures waiting to unfold, As the dancing stream bubbles along and winds round an impending rock a surprise awaits us. There is a scene so grand and wondrous that makes us silent and we are chained together in awe, It seems up to this time a handmaid have been leading us through the porch and into the hallway, Now we have arrived we have entered the chamber itself and stood face to face with our host, Once more nature has opened her house to all her guests and hung forth her richest draperies. The scenery before us now makes goose bumps rise on our arms and raises hair on our necks. The sun shines brightly on the waters and the brown watered stream turns into a river of gold, The land stretched out before us a radiant green that met the turquoise sky on the far horizon, The caressing breezes carry delicious smells and scents it’s a new spring everything is awake.
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