I am not a poet that I have said before
I am just a rhymer that and nothing more
In the Literary World not worthy of note
I've never pretended for to be a poet.
I pen rhymes of the lark with the musical bill
That carols so sweetly above the brown hill
A disappearing speck in the clouds of the sky
His music grows fainter as upwards he does fly.
I like to pen rhymes of the silver tongued rill
That to the big river babbles with a will
At the start of it's journey to the sea far away
It never stops babbling by night or by day.
I like to pen rhymes of the wild birds of song
Some of them by their voices one cannot get wrong
I grew to love Nature long before my life's prime
And my love for her is undiminished by time.
I loved reading the poems of the old bards as a boy
And penning rhyme now is a thing I enjoy
But we all look at life one might say differently
At least anyway that's how it seems to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem