BLUEBELLS AND BUTTERCUPS
Posted: Tue Sep 20, 2011 10:11 pm
probably more of an English feel to this one - harking back to a childhood spent picking wild bluebells and crocus and making buttercup and daisy chains in a time of innocence and pink sugar mice
BLUEBELLS AND BUTTERCUPS
The little stream meandered through the bluebell festooned glades
it gurgled happily as it wended its way
down the hillside, through the valleys, past the weeping willow trees.
Did it know that it would be a sea one day?
A naked nymph with waist length hair frolicked in the mill pond
where the water towers reflection shimmered soft,
a black deer bravely ventured to the water for a drink
and a butterfly on scented breeze did waft.
Bright river boats in shades of buttercup, scarlet and blue
made downhill descent on a staircase of locks
and later they’d come up again though water can’t flow uphill
It seems at times nature we can outfox.
Two laughing children played beneath the warm and sunny skies
as their Mother watched from ‘neath the willows shade.
One fell slowly to the ground and lay, stretched out and groaning -
shot by bandits, in the cowboy game they played.
And everywhere one looked the day was clean and bright and beautiful,
small golden buttercups lift faces to the sun.
Whilst in flight a skylark chattered and nothing much else mattered
I had found its nest in bracken but eggs - nary a one.
Maureen Clifford © 09/11
BLUEBELLS AND BUTTERCUPS
The little stream meandered through the bluebell festooned glades
it gurgled happily as it wended its way
down the hillside, through the valleys, past the weeping willow trees.
Did it know that it would be a sea one day?
A naked nymph with waist length hair frolicked in the mill pond
where the water towers reflection shimmered soft,
a black deer bravely ventured to the water for a drink
and a butterfly on scented breeze did waft.
Bright river boats in shades of buttercup, scarlet and blue
made downhill descent on a staircase of locks
and later they’d come up again though water can’t flow uphill
It seems at times nature we can outfox.
Two laughing children played beneath the warm and sunny skies
as their Mother watched from ‘neath the willows shade.
One fell slowly to the ground and lay, stretched out and groaning -
shot by bandits, in the cowboy game they played.
And everywhere one looked the day was clean and bright and beautiful,
small golden buttercups lift faces to the sun.
Whilst in flight a skylark chattered and nothing much else mattered
I had found its nest in bracken but eggs - nary a one.
Maureen Clifford © 09/11
