LINES TO A PAINTING OF SUMMER
Here the seasons change, the year goes by,
There eternal summer reigns supreme.
Never will those lilies fade and die,
Nor the twin swans that grace that placid stream
Ever reach the deep wide reedy pool
Where their companions sport; but always be
Youthful lovers, tall and beautiful
Returning from their stolen ecstasy.
Never will winter ravage those green trees,
Always, the summer breeze will whisper through;
And always will those flowers seduce the bees;
That quiet sky be crystal clear and blue.
Those children will not see a winter’s morn,
Never with sorrow those bright eyes fill,
And to generations yet unborn
They will be little children, laughing still.
THOUGHTS ON WINTER
The winds blow chill, the woodland paths lie wet,
Deep buried now the dormouse and his kin,
Last withered leaves drift down; the stage is set,
And the old act of winter may begin.
Head not the gloom nor the black frozen earth,
Draw curtains close and bank the fire right well;
And gather to the warm and friendly hearth
All those with songs to sing and tales to tell.
The time is ripe to cherish and unfold,
And taste the golden summer’s stored delights,
While sheep close-huddled group against the cold,
And screeching barn owls welcome frosty nights.
Unfold, drink deep and let the summer go.
Now winter bring us meadows white with rime,
Church windows shining on new fallen snow,
And holly berries red for Christmas time.
Who has not walked in woods bejeweled in ice?
Transposed as though by some magician’s hand,
And surely saw the flowers of paradise,
And felt he walked with God in Fairyland.”
FRED AND THE ROBIN
​
A Robin piped at the gates of Hell,
And sang to the sinful dead,
For, amongst the ranks of the millions there,
Was a gardener, Green Hands Fred.
Now Fred, when alive, was kindly man,
But his language was something cruel.
Even the cabbages held their ears,
If he stumbled or dropped a tool.
Trees that had opened their April buds,
In the warm soft April rain,
Shuddered and shook to hear Feed swear,
And closed their buds again.
But the Robin followed Fred all day,
And preened those tiny wings,
For more than God, the Robin knew,
Fred loved all living things.
Fred died in times of war and strife,
And multiple human woe,
God made hasty Judgement then,
And Fred was sent below.
But the Robin piped at the Gates of Hell,
To the only friend he knew,
And over the weeping and wailing,
The Robin’s song came through.
And every soul that had ever known
What it meant to love and care,
Remembered the birds in a garden,
And knelt in silent prayer.
Then the Devil in rage, frustrated,
Flung Hell’s Gates open wide,
And stood and laughed in scornful glee,
As the Robin flew inside.
Hell’s fierce and hungry flames leapt up,
The little head dropped down,
One last sweet pipe - the Robin fell,
A crumpled heap of brown.
Then God cried, Hold! Fred comes to me
And heaven has room as well,
For one brave bird that gave its life,
To find a friend in Hell.
So a Robin sings in heaven now,
Whilst the Angel Host beguiles,
It’s so ‘good days’ with language rare,
While God just sits and smiles.
TREES
​
I wonder if trees sleep. I think they do.
While cooling night wind softly filters through
Sun-wearied leaves and sleeping dream night long
Of birds that filled the golden day with song.
Of children who beneath their branches played,
And cows and horses grateful for the shade,
And grass so green and sky so blue.
I wonder if trees sleep. I hope they do.
​
JUMBLE TEDDY
Mine was the world of the upper ten,
I was the nursery favourite then,
A footman opened our door.
Dusted and cleaned by a lady’s maid,
Deep in a scented cot I laid,
‘Till a child was a child no more.
Alas! Alas! There came a day,
When the family I loved just went away,
Deserting toys galore.
Who heeds the tears of Teddy bears?
A change of fortune, and then who cares?
When a child is a child no more.
Now on a jumble stall I lie,
Buy me, somebody, buy, please buy,
Buy me and let me live.
I may be worn and torn and old,
But I have warmth and a heart of gold,
And so much love to give.
Among the crowd a face I see,
A child as ragged and poor as me,
Her eyes on the jumble stand.
Oh! Let her buy me; buy or steal,
Oh joy of joys again I feel
The touch of a child’s hand.
OLD PRINT
Amused by some old print of bygone days,
I smile at the quiet people in the street.
Yet know, like us, each took his troubled ways
And hopeful or despairing went to meet
His individual fate; I puzzle why;
What were his dreams? What drove him?
What grim fear?
Why did he struggle? Knowing he must die
And pass as though he never had been there.
So surely, one day, folk will think on us,
And future generations laugh to see
A photo of our modern greed and fuss,
Seeming to them, our quaint antiquity.
LINES TO A SQUIRREL
IN THE GARDEN
Stay little stranger. Stay! Oh stay.
Here are trees and lawns to play.
Here is safety hedged round,
And kindliness and peace abound.
Down in the woods are men with guns,
The fox hides and the rabbit runs.
The pheasant sounds his warning cry.
The guns crack, Oh! Who will die?
Here are trees and lawns to play.
Stay little stranger. Stay Please stay.
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