Vale of Swardeston, Norfolk
Winter
King winter stripped the hedge of every leaf,
uncluttered every bough and left it clean.
So now his sky is etched in sharp relief
with secret writing hitherto unseen,
a cipher coded in complexity
that’s written in a multitude of lines,
in twisted tangles of perplexity,
in skeins of old man's beard and snaking vines.
The summer’s blossom and the leafy dead
lie tattered on the field where they were felled
or thinly hang on branches overhead,
in livery of white, by frost compelled;
they wear the uniform of winter, king,
who is the start and end of everything.
Spring
The air announces it: the coming spring.
Bring me my canvases. Break out a chest
of paints and brushes; see how I can fling
as many colours on the board as spring.
Why! Spring is brazen, flaunts its almonds, peach
and blows its blossoms far beyond my reach;
strutting its yellow ranks, its greens and whites,
brave little colours borne through bitter nights,
parading now for spring, for spring who dressed
in orpiments and limes and lemon greens
the oak, the ash, the lime itself, the beech,
late ragged beggars standing forth like queens.
I cannot copy this, I own defeat
and lay my brushes down before the feet
of lovely spring.
Bring my guitar then. I have heard the spring,
calling with cooing doves the coming sun;
singing for summer, clapping on the wing,
impatient, with the winter barely done
commanding choruses of dawn aloud
with plumes and feathers vying in a crowd.
Come, tune my strings, I’ll serenade the lark
and sound the songs that spring from memory;
dawn with the blackbirds, eve with thrushes, dark
for nightingales to come and sing with me.
But every spring surprises every ear
with sweeter songs than any heard last year
and memory falls short. Spring, you must choose
to praise yourself or find another muse.
Summer
Waves on the barley,
fresh green billows tipped with bronze,
slowly turn to gold.
Autumn
Watch this space.
King winter stripped the hedge of every leaf,
uncluttered every bough and left it clean.
So now his sky is etched in sharp relief
with secret writing hitherto unseen,
a cipher coded in complexity
that’s written in a multitude of lines,
in twisted tangles of perplexity,
in skeins of old man's beard and snaking vines.
The summer’s blossom and the leafy dead
lie tattered on the field where they were felled
or thinly hang on branches overhead,
in livery of white, by frost compelled;
they wear the uniform of winter, king,
who is the start and end of everything.
Spring
The air announces it: the coming spring.
Bring me my canvases. Break out a chest
of paints and brushes; see how I can fling
as many colours on the board as spring.
Why! Spring is brazen, flaunts its almonds, peach
and blows its blossoms far beyond my reach;
strutting its yellow ranks, its greens and whites,
brave little colours borne through bitter nights,
parading now for spring, for spring who dressed
in orpiments and limes and lemon greens
the oak, the ash, the lime itself, the beech,
late ragged beggars standing forth like queens.
I cannot copy this, I own defeat
and lay my brushes down before the feet
of lovely spring.
Bring my guitar then. I have heard the spring,
calling with cooing doves the coming sun;
singing for summer, clapping on the wing,
impatient, with the winter barely done
commanding choruses of dawn aloud
with plumes and feathers vying in a crowd.
Come, tune my strings, I’ll serenade the lark
and sound the songs that spring from memory;
dawn with the blackbirds, eve with thrushes, dark
for nightingales to come and sing with me.
But every spring surprises every ear
with sweeter songs than any heard last year
and memory falls short. Spring, you must choose
to praise yourself or find another muse.
Summer
Waves on the barley,
fresh green billows tipped with bronze,
slowly turn to gold.
Autumn
Watch this space.
