There is a sadness about the old meadow,
Damp and lush and rich in its neglect.
Woodbine and grass tangles are hid
Behind the bramble bushes and old ash
And the ditches that have long since
Silted up as old ways have fallen by.
I know and love these hills, these fields,
The trees that line and shade the road
And harbour bluebells beneath stooped
Boughs that creak in Spring's late breaths.
I hear, too, the joyful cacophony,
Of wren, lark and starling,
Of sparrow, finch and thrush,
Evening's defiant symphony,
And then, suddenly, I remember how
This place cradled me in days gone by,
Held me when words tore like thorns
And nettles were a welcome caress.
I won't come here again, not now,
Their house soon to be a strange tomb
For quietly fading memories and
Past happinesses best forgot.
24th May 2015
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Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...
