Winter on the doorstep, autumn leaves still underfoot, naked trees, frosted grass.... chilly mornings, warm socks, soft sunlight, icy windscreens, hot chocolate, leopard print gloves, splashin' in puddles, sodden umbrellas, wispy woodsmoke, movies and blankets...... I say hello and welcome Winter!!
Sometimes I think the beginning of Winter is my favourite time of the year. It always feels so clean, the air is crisp and the beauty of autumn is still showing it's full glory..... Anyway a kind of winter laziness has a set in today, so here's a poem that I wrote a while back and kinda like - so thought I would share....
Land of The Fey
The Fey, they tiptoe softly across the moonlit lawn
Whilst angels hang in droplets, in the black before this dawn
Beware young sir in red-feathered cap
In polished boots, looped with leather strap
These ancient hills, and haunted barrows
Are not meant for your misguided arrows
“A stag, a stag , such sad words do ring,
An ancient lore you have now rescind
For animals that walk upon this soil
The fey; at violent death, recoil
So sit ye merry, antlers strapped to your pack
Unsuspecting of any malevolent wrath
That these small folk, to your life, may bring
With a tug of your golden-knocker, “ding, ding”
“Enter”, you shout quite unaware
Of the mischief these unearthly creatures may bear
You feel a magick breeze whisk by your face
And rapidly fall out of all time and space
Now ye wake to such a sight unknown
With a head so sore, you do but moan
“For pity sake, where on earth am I”,
Yet a wizened elf laughs by and by,
“Why sir you are but prisoner in the land of the fey,
And for your crimes against nature, here shall ye stay”.
Peace and light
Briony x
The Darkling Thrush
ReplyDeleteby Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
MT
What a beautiful poem - and so sad and poignant
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for the poem and comment Dad!! I really enjoyed The Darkling Thrush......such a wonderful vision, the bleakness of winter being broken by a cheerful birdsong :) Peace and light Bri x
ReplyDelete