Biography of David Wood
David Wood Poems
Bluebells carpet the woodland floor Packed so tightly that insects tip-toe Softly and quietly between them. Their beauty unlocks a woodland door
Married villages emptied to the call. Young single men from well-worn towns Changed from suits and flat caps to khaki. They changed their hob nailed working boots
The week after the funeral the house was cleared Memories taken to the auctioneers to be sold off, The polished sideboard and dining room table, The picture frames now empty of smiling faces.
Sonnet 88: Trees
There is never a sight more beautiful Or so amazing than that of a tree, In summer with branches and leaves so full With gently swaying boughs for all to see.
Cherry blossom fell like confetti In the wind, but there was no bride Or groom only a pair of robins On the grass beneath the cherry tree.
I am your faithful friend, I cannot lie My silver charm waits upon your desire As I stand and wait patiently for you.
Of Golden Leaves
‘Tis time to mend this wounded heart Since it slowed to a miniscule beat To see with my eyes the face of the world And say ‘hello’ to all I greet.
Autumn prepares the earth for the cold of winter The warmth of the summer sun has gone Now chill winds blow autumn leaves from trees Making a patchwork quilt on woodland paths.
The life we had was all we had And the life we had was ours The love we had was all we had
Sitting on the bed they once shared The old man opened an old shoe box He kept on the wardrobe floor. Inside were the memories of a
The Girl With The Pearl Earring
What was she thinking, sitting there? Her blue and gold head scarf hanging Down her back, that pearl earring, those Bright red lips drawn slightly apart.
Ode To The Golden Daffodil
Daffodils in their twilight fade As May begins to shine Their fragrance lost for another year, A display both delicate and fine.
That glowing orb of yellow daffodil Darkening from yellow to orange glow From the west faint embers that thrill A shimmering breeze that dips below
As The River Flows Along
The field was dotted with them, Hay bales stacked high on high With field mice and shrews making hay Running and playing between the bales
Dead Of Winter
White feathery frosts of ice on grass
And trees. Heavy frigid breaths do pass,
With blustery icy cold wind on your face.
Damp paths and wet cold roads trace
A pattern and icicles hang from gutters.
Mist swirls around wispy folds unwinds
And forms cold clumps of foggy binds
Like some super glue in low lying lands,