Tag Archives: the natural world


A tree branch, bowed
Half blocked the track.
I did not turn back
But ducked under.

There it stands,
Guarding the path.
Bowed by the recent wind.

Nature will have the last laugh,
Whether this tree
Outlasts me,
Or no.

She Said to Me

She said to me
Yesterday, that she
Does not like to see
The rain.

On my way
Through the park yesterday
Slow droplets of rain
Fell from the trees,
And I heard
Birds sing.

How strange it is to me
That she should see
No beauty in these
Rain, and birds, and trees.

The Coming Gale

Last night the rain
And the wind
Which almost blew
Me off my human feet.

I took refuge at home,
From the gale.

Sheep continue to speak
Of progress.
But the wise turn pale
For they know
That the gale
May blow
Humanity off it’s feet.

I Walk Amidst These Windblown Leaves

I walk amidst these
How time has flown.
I shall in beauty drown,
And think on these
Fallen leaves,
Which now strew the ground.

The Rain Patters Amongst These Leaves

The rain
Patters Amongst these leaves.
I listen again
And ascertain,
That its the breeze
Midst these trees.
Yet it sounds the same
As rain.

I Would Rather Die In This Darkening Park

Would rather die
In this darkening park,
Evening birds sing,
Than in some sterile
Hospital wing,
Where drugs oblivion bring,
And no birds sing.

Having written the last line, I am reminded that I owe a huge debt to John Keats, “La Belle Dame sans Merci”, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44475/la-belle-dame-sans-merci-a-ballad).

The last 2 lines of the first stanza of Keat’s poem read:
“The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”.
While the last stanza of the poem runs thus:
“And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”.

Words On A January Day

There is something about the song
Of birds, on a cold, January day,
That makes me wish to stay,
Out in this wood,
The air
Is good.

There song
Is long
As joy, or grief.
Although, we know
That joy is, too often brief.

The smile
Oft flits across the face, then is gone
Lives on
In the hearts of men
Who, when
They hear the birds
Pour out words,
To our feathered friends,
Who comprehend
Not our ends).

My dog revels in the sscents of grass,
Whilst I
Look up to the sky
And think “all this will pass”,
(A thought that he can not grasp).
Yet he, and the birds that fly,
Are happier than I.