Humble Reader,

Allow me, after an unexpectedly busy day of archery and then wandering around London looking for a flat, to introduce this little pile of poems that Spring has happily brought out of me. For their quality I apologise, but the necessity for content on this blog commands them to be presented immediately:

Maytime Musings

The gold-red dawn that rang with fire
Blew out from farm to wood and spire,
And through the valley hills alone
Tumbled down on moss and stone.

I trespassed on those care-free scenes,
A gleaner searching golden dreams,
Collecting dawns that rise and lay
Among the cherry tints of day.

It fell like this in years gone by,
Each sunbeam, every winter sigh,
When Arthur, Cranmer, or King James
Wandered through these peaceful lanes.

Here the Norman, sins confessed,
Stooped his way to home and rest,
Or the Roundhead, hot with wars,
Preached to others for his cause.

The quiet serf, or noble king
Crossed these paths now rich with Spring,
And by the wood or through the vale
Heard the pebble stones inhale.

The ancient breeze my carry still
The new-cut grass from Danbury Hill,
And while we gleaners pass and fade,
Each Spring sees those passed hearts remade.

The Saxon Field

It was an age and acre distant
When learned stone was met with sword
When kings were dashed in but an instant
And royal blood enriched the sward.

When here, just where you stand, the yeoman,
Glad of heart and topped with zeal,
Flew arrows out ‘gainst Viking rowmen,
And Saxons bloodied Norse-made steel.

The cry went up, the landers came,
There roared from hell the hate of years,
A blood-red firmament of flame
Filled with shouts and taunts and cheers.

All silent now, the grass is green;
The spring has tickled out the bloom,
And now we think, and fear to dream,
Of men whom here once met their doom.

A Trip to Chichester

On Sunday after half past two
I went to town as people do
To ‘take the air’ and ‘chase the geese’
And buy myself a bright blue fleece.
And getting there in healthy time
I thought I’d hear the church clock chime.
Those noble bells clucked loudly when
I realised it was just a hen,
And climbing to inspect the spire
I found it made of chicken wire.
I thought it was a little much
To fit the church inside a hutch.
The highstreet was knee-high with straw
Which seemed a quite tremendous flaw,
I thought “How will the cars get through” –
There was no parking space, it’s true,
For shops ‘t’weren’t even space for one
Which might explain why there were none.
And even the electric lights
Illuminated farmyard sights.
It seemed that on my way to town
I’d had my map held upside down,
And being lost, I had instead
Locked myself inside a shed.

Adieu, my Dearest Reader.