Autumn’s gilding trees again the Downs in shrouds of white, A skein of geese flies overhead across and out of sight, The sun is slow upon the rise, the shadows stretching long The changing world of seasons calls for summer
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A man looked into my eyes today From the back of a big brown mare, His grey-green eyes reflected the skies And the wind was in his hair. I’d passed the test when I opened the gate I was one
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Muriel and Margaret, wearing the patchwork quilt. The patchwork Quilt Across my bed silently it lies, That patchwork quilt, Its weight is warming, The colours vibrant Cathedral-like stained glass, It many stories tell. Each piece so delicately made It could
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Petit vedette, restaurant owner of Haynes Bar, Rue Clauzel, Paris No one will ever know who you really are, From where you watch the world pass by Is not your piece of street. Bur one day when you’re gone People
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Cymbals and bees, descending clashing, music discordant, Mixed with hot air and blue skies, Bird song in a trough of summer; White tents, blue and red tents, yellow tents, Striped tents, full of bees and cymbals, Heat, mud lots of
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The sun split the earth from night It spun black into gold, And the horse walked over night Triumphant – for day dawns And with day is Hope and he rides The horse into the wild world of the future.
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To John Baldock, on a visit to his grave 9th June 2020. I drive along the rolling road, Beneath the sun between the trees, Familiar are the turns and hills My life with you threw us upon, The winding way
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The lady of the sea of grass, The rolling downs o’er which she’ll pass, Her wedding veil across her face Her fleeting dawn she does embrace, The rhythmic breath, the sovereign turf The lark looks down upon this earth Watching
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I braced myself. The bitter wind lashed the windowpane, Angry it could not enter. I pulled up my hood, The zip closed against the snow I called the dog whose tail ceaselessly Like a machine plugged in, Whirred in excitement.
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A retelling of the true story of Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough and Willliam Cloudesley, a poem: Printed at London: By Richard Cotes and are to be sold by Francis Grove … 1648. Clim of the Clough was an
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