Lucy Burrow

Lucy Burrow Poems

When Summers blue sky fades to grey
And swiftly ends the shortening day,
When coldness takes the flowers away
Ill dance the dance of winter!

Bravest men we hailed them then
England sent her finest men
The war to end all wars to fight
A cause each one believed was right

'Voice of a Wildebeast? ' she said......
She sort of spat it out
Her lined brow furrowed

I’m the tree on the battlefield – a pitiful sight
I watch as the bullets fly to left and to right
I’m the tree that’s watched blood flow from every man’s heart
I’m the tree on the battlefield, half blown apart.

Daylight's twinkling eye now firmly shuts
And busy bird's nestmaking labours still.
Now all the land takes diff'rent hues of night
And hungry owl-call tones are heard to shrill;

Summer is coming I hear the wind whisper
Tales of new seasons now waltz in the breeze
Daffodils dancing and bluebells are waking
And new leaves are sprigging on every tree

Mother Earth she tends and keeps me on the path that’s right and true
Sends me blossoms soft as satin painted each and ev’ry hue
Tall Oaks and Ash and Willow, Elders, Chestnut and the Thorn
These, my brothers and my sisters - and I’ve seen each one being born!

A cloud streaked sky of azure blue
Canopies the dampened ground
Where Autumnal leaves of every hue
Are windswept piles the children found

She leaves
For another day of
Sharpened claws,
Twisted by opinion,

The birds that sang to bring forth the day
Have spread their wings and swiftly flown away...
And the sun that rose to greet the dawn
Brought the sight of something really quite forlorn.

Some in Khaki, Standing proud
Line upon line in village and town
They straight-back march past watching crowd
To remember.

As day was beginning, I mused at your being
As dawn's early mist rolled the darkness away.....
Within you, young lambs and black rooks and a robin,
Within me a voice seemed to call me to play.

A new priest, he came to our village,
With the Curate he wanted to meet
So he ventured on down, as a stranger in town
To find him, on Jackaby Street

I watched the sun dance through the trees
Leaping and dancing
In the dying days of Autumn;
Dodging the cold and damp of winter...

Oh fair land of Arthur, of unsurpassed beauty,

We are Western men and we’re fighting for the King

Give me the blood red poppy,

Swirling angrily from ocean vast,
Wilma's Iron fist doth blast
The coast of far Americay
- This season's blown her half away!

I made a castle in the sand
It looked like you
The sun dried it
And it crumbled

I pondered in the still of night,
When earth lay cold and crisp
And all the stars shone clear and bright
Was it a night like this?

Lucy Burrow Biography

Born to British Parents working in Nigeria, the family moved back to UK when I was only 6 weeks old. Have written poetry for as long as I could hold a pen and songs for about 8 years. I am into traditional music and song, am a member of Cornwall songwriters, play the celtic harp, violin, tenor banjo, penny and low d whistle and the irish drum, the bodhran. I am married with 2 daughters aged 24 and 20. We live in North Cornwall and have a dog named Dobby and 2 cats, Neville and Luna.I write because I love to write, I hope you enjoy..... I welcome your comments, kind or unkind and understand that different people have different tastes and that my taste may not always be yours..........Oh the beauty of diversity!)

The Best Poem Of Lucy Burrow

Jacky Frost

When Summers blue sky fades to grey
And swiftly ends the shortening day,
When coldness takes the flowers away
Ill dance the dance of winter!
Over hedges see me trip
To frost the leaf and haw and hip,
To petrify each sparkling drip
And dance the dance of winter.
Ill fade the roses red to white,
Redress the landscape in one night!
Make the cobwebs crisp and white
And herald in the winter.
I’ll tiptoe over lawns and trees
The water pipe I soon shall freeze,
Ill bring transport to its knees!
And turn all things to winter
In leafy Hollows, see me hide,
I herald in the Christmas tide
Where man keeps snug by fires inside
While outside, I am winter.

Lucy Burrow Comments

Joseph Daly 30 December 2005

Lucy is a traditionalist, but that is not an insult. Her works display a highly disciplined approach and can be imformative and humourous at the same time. Do not reject Lucy because she choses to write in a traditional form.

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