Contrariwise To The Newest Wrinkle
Paint us now a heavy horse
pulling through the mire.
Sing the praises of our land
plough beside proud spire.
See her clear- the misty dew,
time's own ghost of white.
Alight her here nearer still:
lone owl of the night.
Leave one girl in her spring best
leant upon a gate.
Held in twilight reflection;
our own fine day grown late.
M.C. Newberry
Wed 24th May 2017 13:50
A pleasing word picture that brings to life a vignette
of a largely vanished countryside - with the added
pleasure of the personal portrait to close.