Poetry Blogs (rivers)

version without the Welsh folklore

Under the yellow-green of sunlit beech

between banks of bluebells' hazy blue

where supple crosiers of new fern reach             

over verdant moss still damp with dew

a grassy lane runs beside the river

In the mystic quiet of a leafy dome

of grey bark ash, beech and mighty oak

a far cuckoo calls all walkers home

but we pass u...

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Under the yellow-green of sunlit beech

between banks of bluebells' hazy blue

where supple crosiers of new fern reach             

over verdant moss still damp with dew

a grassy lane runs beside the river

In the mystic quiet of a leafy dome

of grey bark ash, beech and mighty oak

a far cuckoo calls the dryads home

but we pass unseen by woodland folk

'til tylwyth teg w...

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A STEP TOWARDS WINTER.

I look into the mirror’s depthless space

and note the wrinkles that, somehow have grown

into something I wish I didn’t own.

The knife of age has cut into my face.

The greys within my hair have moved apace

from where the bird of youth had lightly flown

to make a nest of life that it could own.

I wish it hadn’t sprinted in that race.

...

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