Poetry By
Juleigh Howard-Hobson
Published on: 4/2/2009
Staffordshire Farm, Abandoned
Straw coloured grass, breeze lifted, rain bedewed, grows wild and overlong before the low mossy stones of the garden wall; half blown by winds and threaded through the hedge and row, stopping at the banks where a stream intrudes. glimmers of cowslip and columbine show in bright randomness within the tall grass as it grows on the old furrows. Winds pass to show, weed hidden by a path, a mass of forget me nots, left behind to grow. Circled all around: meadows yet to bear the next harvest. Plowed. Planted. Everywhere grows forth green goodness from the land, but here: nothing: too long abandoned, too hard to clear.
Published on: 4/8/2008
Coming Upon A Stone Circle at Sunset
Old Birch trees, whose white branches weave and sift The brilliant evening twilight, huddle deep Around these circled stones. The old grove shifts As leaves and chilly breezes slightly lift And rustle. But these silent grey stones keep Their secrets: no wind reveals, no evening shade distills Why they stand, encircling each other, in these hills. With ancient reasons more astute than ours These stones were brought here, then precisely set. Each in its place. Time moves, things change, rains pour Suns rise and set, winter storms blow and roar, These, encircled, change not. Only men forget. And now we watch as deepened shadows show How much we've lost of what our fathers' fathers know.
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