Daphne Grant

To my teacher who’s noble worth I do escrue,
Such honour worthy men bestow,
To learning, and desire for truth.
To noble thought, and knowledge to impart,
...

A little touch of colour
More delicate than a spider's web
That hangs arrayed with dew.
Apon the orchard gate,
...

In January's cold gloom
When shiver we must,
Armed with camera out we go
Forgetting all this winter's frost
...

Oft did I wander as a child
On the hills above the town,
Away from calling voices, loud,
To be alone, rejoicing in the world I found,
...

Across the gulf of gardens
Your Christmas lights are clear.
Blinking on and off they
Bring a message of good cheer.
...

The computer is a thing that gobbles time –
And though deny it, tis true he gobbles mine!
And thought be quicker here in theory,
The everlasting searching, makes me weary!
...

When shops held no bananas and orange were rare
But when a copper spoke to you: you simply had to care.
When the teacher said, “be quiet” the silence could be heard,
Now everyone is shouting and no one hears a word.
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Down the steps against he wall
A mass of glory all outspread,
White, white wing and coal black head.
Body askew, already dead.
...

I cannot bear this summer heat
I'll go out on the balcony,
Where stars are clear
...

It's with much joy and happiness
I come to visit you
...

Round and round the dresses swirling
Arms now waving, as the scene mind
fed only begins to fulfil a dream
Tchaikovski planted there.
...

With Peter Barkworth as Sassoon,
And his imaginary torn platoon,
We wandered through a long time past
Relived again the horrors in the grime.
...

Glowering, the rain comes over Will's Mothers
Glowering, the storm,
Spills rain on the trembling leaf.
Far in the distance stands,
...

Ah: the verde smells so sweet,
Around the school where
Where sweethearts meet.
Where honeysuckle in summer blooms,
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When summer comes
And daises on green lawns appear
And chestnut candles stand high apon the bow,
And ladies lightly clad; some dream endear,
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How miserable the world in winter seems
Dark drear, the meadows near the stream.
I see the tree from my window there
Starkley dripping; strakley bare.
...

If you should walk in Romsey park,
Be sure it's in the spring.
Every few paces you will see,
A pleasant line of poetry.
...

Oh Pat, this grief you left with me,
In November will not stay it's hand,
To add to general gloom, it's band
Will a long time play
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In summertime I will not come
To the house you called home in Goldington
Where two tall fir trees linger yet,
Inside the brick wall there so red.
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Hush where she sleeps, no angel's wing,
Can wake that heart of gold
Or that sweet voice no angel match,
it had a ring untold.
...