Memories Residing Poem by George Howard

Memories Residing



By GeorgeHoward 05.2010

Oh to lay me down in fields of golden wheat prostrate,
Watching cotton clouds across azure blue skies abate.
Helios gazing down, warming me with tender, gentle care.
Hawk on high, stalling and climbing, but ever watchful stare.
Stone like decent, silent and deadly end to tiny mouse or shrew.
To see old man beetle, dashing by, rushing where, if only he knew.
Sitting upon rocks, as squabbling water tumbles by, o’er pebble gems.
Flowing forth, with excitement and glee, down hills and glens.
Clean and crisp babbling stream, proffering cheek, for icy kiss.
Pure, newborn anew, promise of life, giving succour and earth bliss.
Seeing a miracle, a birth, a lamb, a completion of cyclic life,
Gambolling gangly fools, celebrating, no fear of the butcher’s knife.
Walking velvet, newly mown meadow, ambrosia rivalled by few.
Carpets of purple-blue velvet and gold, labouring with dew.
Aromas flooding senses, as blooms and herbs compete to win favour.
Insects, called, obey, enraptured by one or another delicious, scented flavour.
The earthy odours of fresh turned soil, gently stinging nostrils wide.
Chastising Seagulls, following the plough and forgetting the tide.
Warbling bushes of Blackbirds chorus, sharp, true and bright.
The Judas Cuckoo, trying to compete, as the Skylark takes flight,
High aloft to heaven she climbs, all but out of sight, a fluttering speck.
To out fox the Fox, the Weasel the Stoat, her clutch unguarded upon the deck.
She sings her song of deft deceit, completing distraction, a clever tool.
Then danger past, she hovers down, several yards adrift, once more to fool.
She zigs and zags, towards her nest, where waits her mate, the last defence.
The fox trots by, the ruse has worked, he’d seen the bird, knew not whence.
Dusk veiled hedgerows, silhouettes of black against the Shepherd’s sky, render.
Orange grove clouds tear the even skies asunder, with resultant vista splendour.
Gnats dance like fools, with gay abandon, swirling around a wafted hand.
Grasshoppers, rubbing legs on wings, Nightjars join chorus, for the evening’s band.
I lay my head on downy pillow, watching through open window now,
Awaiting Morpheus, drinking the night, and all that the day did bestow.

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George Howard

George Howard

Pontefract (Broken Bridge) , UK
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