Walking by the Fen at Eve Time
Moving marsh land melodies,
from a tricolor blackbird,
floating upon the evening air.
Soft, the hum of lonely bees.
just a whisper upon the wind I heard,
as I sort out the night sounds with care.
There, off to the left, the drone of a dragonfly,
hunting supper on the wing as eve falls,
and life puts on its somber ebon cloak.
I sit here and listen with a soft sigh,
and watch a Heron hunt in reeds so tall,
for a careless frog who boldly croaks.
Wetland wonders in the gathering gloom,
and I partake of them with a joyous heart,
for these are moments so gently engraved.
The rising moon sets the stage for night’s loom,
where many threads will be woven once a part,
and now bound in memory to be sweetly saved.
Grey Citadel
It were an old barn, ancient even when I were a kid,
a grey castle we played in, safe from summer’s heat.
A creaking door that we imagined to be a coffin lid,
and we played hide and seek in the piled hay so sweet.
Just an old barn it were, but to us, a palace for we kings,
and many a knight like us rode forth on stick horses bold.
We rode around it, the trees our Sherwood’s leafy ring,
and never did we tire of our ancient wooden keep so old.
The seat of the old wagon within a king’s throne,
where lordly decisions were made with raised slat sword.
Our haven from the rain, where we might set the tone,
and hold court in the grey palace upon that dry grass sward.
Good morning, Johnn!
Lovely, absolutely lovely, both of the poems.
Treasures in the Lair I find
when I open eyes on a new day
gems a gleaming in morning dew
how very grateful I am for you.