Douglas Gibson

A woman wanders through the fields
And idly makes a daisy-chain.
The world is gold; the afternoon
...

Serene as ever waits the tireless train,
The signals blink their wistful lamps beyond
The misty roof, and surely once again
...

The secret dream, the young hope curled
In this dark winter of the world
cannot endure, cannot remain
...

How good to come again by gay red coach
Through mile on mile of country white with snow,
Past grey-green hangars where the tired planes rest
...

Sun dappled apple-green leaves are dripping
Wet gold slowly down into long grass;
Rainbow-hued dancing drops poised on thorns
...

Upon the tranquil evening suddenly falls
The long-awaited passion of the rain,
A gushing silver torrent, spilling
...

After the ambulance that shakes
The urgent bell that comes and goes
Along the street, the silence wakes
within my heart a million woes.
...

The late evening sun falls over the fields
Turning the newly ploughed furrows to fire,
Touching briefly the young buds on the trees
...

It is not that my heart grieves
For these burnt-out Autumn leaves,
But for the green,
Taken before their time,
...

'Aren't they beautiful in the sun!' she said,
Shading her youthful eyes against the light,
In rapturous wonder at the bombers' flight,
...

There is genius here, in the delicate hand
That traced these exquisite pastels across the sky,
In the green-gold froth of the leaves and
...

The night vibrates with the chatter of trucks,
Of clanking couplings and screaming wheels;
A column of smoke glows pink from an engine's fire,
...