The Lime Pits Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

Unto the Rushall Lime Pits I
Now walk upon this lonely trail
That winds through tangled thickets dense
Of nettle gorse and thorn,
That cramp the narrow way ahead
Where dampened grass and puddles lie
Now littered by the fallen leaves
Upon this autumn morn.

So fresh the air does seem to me
So cool the breeze upon my face
I look unto the skies above
That now begins to clear,
As clouds do break and drift afar
To thus reveal the sight of blue
As pallid shadows gently fall
And then do disappear.

As through the woodland I do go
Where ivy climbs embittered trunks
The sun now shines through boughs above
And lights the sodden ground,
As over twisted roots I tread
Which cross the path that leads me to
The picture of the mirrored lake
Where golden trees surround.

With grace their soft reflections rest
Upon the water calm and still
Where mallard and the moorhen swim
Close to the reeded shore,
I linger for a moment there
To listen to the blackbird sing
And cast my gaze across the scene
As leaves fall to the floor.