Poetry Blogs (fields)

And so it begins. Or ends

The seasons change and as

September dies lies forgotten

Like Summer, Autumn October

Rears. Not misty mellow fruitfullness

With rusty leaf colour bright splashing

Hedgerow and tree russet yellow brown,

Mists that turn to rain and wind and heavy

Rain splashing in the track ruts and puddles

Around the farm;  every field soggy with all the

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In the sun's mid-day heat

I see the tall field grasses flow, swell

and come towards me in waves               

surging before the day's wind

the seed-head spume constantly bowing

seems to fall on the field strand where I stand.

The rhythmic onslaught of the waves

continues through the long afternoon - 

a tide of wind-driven swells and rollers

always flowing to my feet, w...

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I rejoice to see that old wood five-bar gate

that still stands guard beneath the ancient beech

to a field sloping gently down the hill.

The gate from an old farm track - now lost to time -

has seen so many seasons, so many harvests pass

and must have known an age of scythes and stooks

of horse drawn harrows, ploughs and wooden carts.

What could it tell of the village...

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The soft blown snow that fell five days ago

Crisp frozen now by these five frosty nights

Still blankets all the fields and moors to show

Where pheasant clattered off on noisy flights

While footfall of the lesser birds is scribed

Less deep; and here a small bank vole has run;

There passed red fox and rabbit side by side

Though time kept them apart and saved the one

At the wo...

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I have ploughed one field

And seen the soil turn

To lie against its fellow

Under the greedy gull shout

Behind my blade.

Worm gorged, at dusk

They seek a distant tide line

And the furrowed field clamour

Slips silently into the night

I have broken the plough lines

Left to crumble in the sun

Where worms once toiled

My disk and dragging chain

Harrowed the la...

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For Gwen, Anne and Eryl

In that happy heady grass-green Spring of my years

A time of lambent lamb slow lamb full days around a whited cottage

Lent us space and ease beneath the sun long sky

Golden glorious hours together in a single thought

With close chicken scrape and distant herd

When the swallows dipped to the fly buzz

When the kite climbed to a gliding speck

     ...

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Oh, England,

you green and pleasant land,

your beauty never ceases to instil

a calmness in my hands.

A sense of peace; contentment

within my wandering mind,

a fulfilling feast for longing eyes

that seem always looking behind.

The golden greens of your pastures

covering long and rolling hills,

the succulent scent of your flowers

tickling senses to smile at...

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