I love to see the winter trees Their twisted boughs and bony knees Contorted knuckles, warted bark The lichens staining limbs so stark If they could speak, a tale they’d tell Of suffering through winter’s hell
I love the springtime’s bursting bowers The tents of green and palest flowers Cascading from proud straining limbs While sheltering from Zephyr’s whims If they could sing, a lullaby Would soothe the lambs as they pass by
I love the summer’s burgeoned boughs Providing shade for we who drowse In languid state, nowhere to be Save prone, in Nature’s reverie If they could hum, a madrigal Would hold the sleepers in their thrall
I love the autumn’s wild cascades The fiery golds and marmalades That crunch beneath our tramping toes The scent of wood fires in our nose If they could whistle, poignantly They’d warn of winter’s coming spree
I can't remember when I didn't write poems but as I've got older, I find they spill into my head, often at inconvenient times of the morning! I use to write them on my way to work, hence the title of my blog, but now I've given up to go trekking around in a campervan with my husband. Plenty of time to reflect on the world, though I don't claim to understand it any better....
Old numbers, lighthouses, baked bread. I open my eyes. nervous and irritable. Another day with vertigo. Five shillings grew lighter and lighter, the grinning letters, occupied me, tender and cool. Things change their colour, and die, The ever-increasing noise, the
Here are stoves uttering trilling cries of joy, their tongues orange, their clothes henna. Here are chumps hissing، lulling, bowing and crying with hot tears; We’ve got a newborn, his hair made of winds and tempests, his hat a cloud,
In late Spring when heros scream A source of sophistication from faint misery Inside the thwart hidden silence of the pivotal solace of my mind With mind blowing excursion toward the legally blind inside Woods in growing habitation & silence