Leaves, Leaves, Leaves,
Upon leafy trees,
In Autumn they blow down,
Drifting beautifully round,
Dancing like merry fey,
They float and drift away,
The leaves scatter,
What do they matter,
All the same in the end.
Leaves on trees.
nature
The Hunt
A horn toots, the trample of hooves,
Dogs chase, the fox gets away!
Run, fox, run fox!
Tally ho the people go.
Tired out, people dismount,
Run, fox, run fox!
Over there, the fox is scared,
The dogs hear, get near,
Run, fox, run fox!
The dogs surround, the fox falls down,
The people whoop, the game is up,
Run, fox, run fox!
They near a ridge, a broken bridge,
Everyone falls, people and all,
Run, fox, run fox!
The fox grips, the fox slips,
The people cry, the fox climbs,
Run, fox, run fox!
The fox climbs, the fox tries,
The fox is hurt, the fox gets worse,
Run, fox, run fox!
The fox dies, joins the foxes in the sky,
Run, fox, run fox!
This poem was written in protest of foxhunting.
My World
Dewdrops tinkling in the springtime,
Rain as it dances on the ground,
Long hair glittering in the sunshine,
Lightning from a silver cloud.
Starlight glowing like a firefly,
Wind as it clears the leaves away,
Misty mornings is a sweet time,
A blanket over where I played.
Brecon Visitor Centre, Wales
This is for the WordPress discover challenge: Transcript because this poem was in my notebook archive, and I thought I’d start writing that up again as my New Year’s resolution (yes, it’s halfway through January. But it’s also the first day of the rest of my life)!
Whose is this?
Whose is this sky, who left it lying around this world?
Whose is this world, who comissioned it to be built?
Whose is the air, the seas, the land, the trees?
And do they want it back again?
Spring
A grey horse, Gospel Pass, Wales.
Spring is upon us, nature awakes,
She brings up the flowers and unfreezes lakes,
The babies are born to the animals who mourn,
As the people steal, the animals’ corn.
Slow and Steady
Slow And Steady
Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire, England.
A tortiose and a snail, one day had a race,
Both in competition, at a slow and steady pace.
The tortoise plodded on, the finish was so near,
But when he arrived, the snail was already here!
Whose is this?
The Forest Of Dean, Near Bristol, England.
Whose is this?
Whose is this sky, who left it lying around this world?
Whose is this world, who comissioned it to be built?
Whose is the air, the seas, the land, the trees?
And do they want it back again?
thewaterfallofwords 