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Some time ago my late mother wrote a poem and when she gave it to
me I said something totally banal like Thank you, its very
nice. It struck me then as very simple and sentimental; which only goes
to show what a pompous prat I was. It is simple and it is sentimental, but it
is more than that, its honest and it evokes a world that whilst it still
exists grows ever more remote. Perhaps, along with the quiet
places, this is what we are losing. |
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Forget Not All
These
Forget not the
country With its pink and white blossom Dancing a tune to the
wind. The duck-pond, the brook, Yellow catkins like Christmas-tree
streamers. Pale clumps of primroses, Shy violets under the
hedge. Tiny house sparrows Darting under the eaves. Frisky lambs, the
quiet cows, Friendly people and peace. Forget not our long, country
lanes Winding past fields Of long, golden corn; Hedges of bright, red
poppies, Foxgloves and honeysuckle. Strong horses with white, hairy
feet Ploughing the land In long, straight furrows. Beautiful
butterflies winging their way Through leafy trees and Flowers of every
hue. The tawny owl, Hooting all through the night. Squirrel with his
big, bushy tail, Storing nuts in the old, hollow tree. The leaping
frog, Badgers, you are lucky to see. Sly fox looking for things that are
not his, Wood pigeon, whom all farmers hate. Forget not our woods With
tall, stately trees. Bluebells ringing their bells In silent tune with
the wind. Wild cowslips making a carpet of gold. Birds of every kind
chirping and singing All through the day. Under the hedges clutches of
pheasants Nest peacefully and hope they are not seen. Carpet of
buttercups, as gold as the sun. Tiny, white daises so peaceful and
bright. Pink dog-rose growing in confusion All through the woods.
Forget not all of these.
By Dorothy
Covins. 1976. |
Sea
Horse
Waves
Crashing Tide Lashing Swirly Sea Yes, He The Horse Running
Free
Mane of
blue Swirly eyes Sea of magic Horse of surprise
A horse of many
wonders Cantering across the shore Until the break of dawn He gallops
more and more
So long until
tonight Until we meet again Ill love you forever You make my
heart alight
When I think of
you I feel as though Im flying Youre my pearl, my gem Oh
horse of many wonders How lonely you must be Do you have any other
friends Or just me?
Blue horse of
magic Canters back into the sea And disappears into the horizon To
forever run free.
By Zoe
Screti (Aged 10 years) |
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Memoirs
The spiky
shadow of an elm fingers the pages of his Hemmingway notebook, His pen moves
in time to the song of a bird, While the summer-scented breeze caresses his
cheek; Tears dribbling down the side of his nose, beads of rage, telling the
emotive tale Of a life in words, episodes of anecdotal candour or just a
chronicle of slander? Stories enhanced with each telling, Are captured in
ink; committed to paper for posterity's pleasure. Actually, no not
for the entertainment of his progeny, More of an ovation for those who
passed this way before; so as To do justice to their memory, lest we
forget Who they were, how they made our lives whole. He closes his eyes
and sets off once more In search of meaning; the anchor that mocked his life
and will loose him in death. Rewriting the past, if only he could, Erase
the crimped outline of experience and colour in the void; Leave a
hard-hearted word unspoken; yet Untie the tongue to say what should have
been said. There would be no regrets, no mistakes, no need for
clemency; But the memory is not the mother of invention. Memoirs hold up
a mirror to his past And reflect the brittle, merciless truth that cannot,
must not, be made over. He writes from the core, with modest
licence; Lighting the road ahead, turning his back on the path he has
travelled before And will walk again and again before the end.
By Simon
Pigden |
Parents
Watching eyes
that saw me into manhood Now bear witness: I admit a debt that I can never
pay. With lantern high, your compass took my bearing And yet, you let me
find my own sweet way. Upon my oath, blinded was my insight; I glimpsed
the truth, but did not dwell to see, The dreams denied, the imaginings made
forfeit All so you could shine your light on me. Demand that I repair the
hurt I caused you; Believe that now I fully comprehend: The price you
paid that I might follow in your footsteps As father to your beloved
grandchildren.
By Simon
Pigden |
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