A watery winter sun warmed the westward woods
but no birdsong burst from the bare branched birches.
Hawthorn hedges were hidden in the haze,
yet a feathered fiend had fixed his gaze.
Stiff, silent trees were standing stark;
wide eyes were watching, waiting.
Suddenly from his nest,
gracefully gliding
over frosty fields,
came snowy owl
seeking his
supper
feast.
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The clocks have gone back
and we’ve lost an hour at night.
We come home in the dark now
instead of the light.
Green leaves turn to gold,
from crimson to russet brown,
until they gently fall.
“He’s not very smart,” I’ve heard them say
cos I’m dressed in rags, in an odd way,
but I’ve stood in this field ev’ry day.
Waving my arms in the summer breeze
I’ve stood in rain, til it’s made me sneeze
and I’ve nearly fallen to my knees.
Too much Rain!
(Trois-par-huit poem)
Now at last
the fear of drought has passed.
They can now cancel the hosepipe ban.
We can put away our brand new watering can,
and forget any idea of a summer tan.
It’s never going to stop, it’s plain,
each day we get again
too much rain!
Spring flowers have faded away,
yellow’s gone ’til another day,
leaves on the trees are in full sway.
It must be May! It must be May!
Doggie Ditties, Potty Poetry and Tall Tales 