Monday, December 14, 2009

My Country

I wonder how you are today,
my green and pleasant land.
My family, my country,
so far from touching hands.

I think about your Seasons.
Mist upon the moor.
Springtime and the daffodils,
snowdrops at the door.

I think about the cottages.
Tiny cobbled streets.
Good Mornings,
and Good Afternoons,
The way the English greet.

My mother’s polished Copper.
My father’s jug of beer.
A ploughman’s lunch,
Instead of brunch,
How everyone said ,’Cheers.’

I remember sketching on the River banks.
Feeding pigeons in the Square.
Galleries of History.
Sunday Markets open air.

Ponies roaming through the vale,
Rolling hills, and heather.
Forest Glades,
footpaths made,
walking in all weather.

From time to time I yearn for you,
my green and pleasant land,
Precious island of my birth,
So far, from touching hands.

No comments:

Post a Comment