Here are two poems from my book Flight of a Bee, published by Gazebo Books in 1978 and again by Voice Publications in 2006. They reflect on two areas of the United Kingdom where natural beauty and man-made beauty abounds, Devon and Wiltshire. I hope you enjoy them dear reader.
Wiltshire Memories
Green trees look down in regal splendour
upon the lushness of prolific summer;
the gentle sweep of grassy slopes
echoing the soft lullaby of Nature.
Whispering leaves above the cricket’s chorus,
calling onward to the pink flush of sunset,
looking back with fond reflection
upon those pleasant Wiltshire summers
when life had just begun.
Rolling fields of golden corn
stretching far beyond the country Inn.
a place where farmhands rested tired feet,
and stopped to quaff a jug of English Ale.
Where the lustre of red-gold sunset
hangs deep into the velvet night,
carried onward into tomorrow
by the gentle breezes of the summer evening,
scented sweet by the new-mown swathes.
In the distance, past the sloping Downs,
where chalk beats watch the closing day,
as the last fading rays of sunlight fall,
bringing the cool of silvered moon,
Then I will rest, safe till dawn breaks.
I’ll sleep sound, wrapped by dry stone walls,
the ancient stones supporting musty thatch,
dreaming of West Country life,
Where man can pleasant moments snatch.
Copyright 2006 Colin Gordon-Farleigh
Devonshire Memories
I shall walk again through winding lanes,
Past greening fields; where cattle low
In soft unison to some hidden brook;
Where blackbird sings, and echoes sweet
The memory of Nature’s full parade.
The gate with the lichen-covered slats
where once we rested, whispering, dreaming
our distant dreams and thoughts of love.
Paying fleeting visits to far-off places
that held us once in the long ago.
On, past the rustic’s cob and thatch
with painted walls of blushing dawn;
tall hollyhocks that outstretch man,
reaching skyward in tumultuous profusion,
with colourful, pristine abandonment.
See the distant viaduct of ancient stone
passing by the lake of Burrator,
where heathered moorland stretches wide,
showing the unseen artist’s hand
that wove the sky, the gorse, and me.
Dear Devon — do you ever stop awhile
to think of me, as I still think of you?
In the morning’s golden hour of dawn,
where the plaintive cuckoo’s call
echoes his trespass of some small domain.
Copyright 2006 Colin Gordon-Farleigh
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