|
|
|
|
|
|
|
THE OLD HILL HEDGE
Dishevelled in beauty
Shambolic in shape
With nettles and berries
To sting or to take.
The hedge in its wildness
Will offer to all
Abundance of living
The Grace of it all.
It grows in its wild way
And cares not a hoot
If you are bejewelled
Or have only a boot.
MC
|
|
|
|
|
|
A Carol
The first that was heard was the beat of a wing
Then hundreds of bells began to ring;
Everyone suddenly started to sing
It was the day of the birth of the King
Our Lord Jesus.
The birds came down in a mighty rush
The Blackbird, the Linnet, the Wren and the Thrush;
The Owl and the Robin and lastly the Dove
To help make a nest for Jesus, their love.
The nest was made of twigs and wood
They made it all as strong as they could -
Inside was moss all woven and green
Lined with soft feathers - warm and clean.
This present came from the birds of the sky
A nice soft bed for Jesus to lie;
The breeze will rock him sound asleep -
The birds their King will safely keep.
Philippa Perks
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
My own flesh and blood.
Of me, yet other,
Gently swelling me
‘Til I am gross.
Then ripping me apart
In your struggle to break free.
Leaving me scarred,
And amazed.
Pippa Spence
|
|
Spring poem
Sunshine in March, Summer's blessing early,
Cold winds still blowing, beware of the chill.
Sun tempts us all out, all hurly burly
Of gardening, working, jogging until
Even exhausted, do not be surly,
Find will to keep going, never be still,
Oh! To be young and not over the hill.
Anon
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Christmas 2003
Christmastide, an unseasonal sadness
Draped over my village like a shawl.
Low grey mist of mourning, despairing hung
Bleak, disbelieving shock in its pall.
What goodwill does death leave in its wake
Or peace to those who are bereaved?
Was not one spark of joy to be theirs
Beneath the mocking Christmas tree?
No gift unwrapped the aching void could fill,
No icing assuage the bitter tarte,
No gains of trifles counteract such loss
The reaper's sickle gather in such haste.
But remembrance of one still, holy night
Shone through, sharply pieced the lowering gloom
In death, yet life explodes in glorious day,
Advent hope fills each stark, empty room.
Tears, still wet, are gently dried with love.
Grieving hearts in comfort's arms are held.
From deep darkness into light we are led,
The Christchild's presence all earthly fear dispelled.
Anon
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
