A Walk in the Country
Peter Woodgate
Like a painter with his
canvas I viewed the morning scene,
Clouds were drifting
overhead The dark hills could be seen
And in the fields the
clover was a haven for the bees,
The rhythm of their crazy
flight Quickened by the breeze.
Meadow grass and thistles
Swayed gently to and fro,
A swallow dipped and
swerved in flight Keen to join the show.
A rabbit, in the early
light was cropping sweet damp grass
And a pheasant, with
ungainly step, In front of me, did pass.
The brushstrokes of my
inner eye Sketched tranquil harmony
And foxgloves, by the garden gate we’re full in bloom for me.
But something strange and
sinister Stood there before my eyes,
Rubbish, heaped, to
curtail the joy And rob me of my prize.
Fly-Tipping
Copyright
Peter Woodgate
Ah! Too often we come across land blighted by fly-tippers. Very well displayed in your well written piece Peter...
ReplyDeleteI renamed it Peter, because the original title kinda stole your thunder...
ReplyDeleteA lovely poem until the end! Myself, I would dearly love to be able to gather up all the ugly rubbish and dump it in the litterers (is there such a word) lounge. To me, they are total scum.
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ReplyDeleteJust enjoying the bees buzzing,the swallows dipping and the bunny nibbling the sweet damp grass...and boom..I am brought back to reality.Sad but true. Good poem.
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