Buckden
“Daisy Hill”
a garden to please
distant, yet ever near
in splendid hue.
Yet here now
the chill of winter’s
wrath, which initiates
spirited breath.
Tenderness
upon the bypass where,
memory does walk
through days gone by.
“Manor Garth”
place of sorcery
speculator, astute
evil and wry.
Industry
without face without
grace, a mechanical
tragedy here.
A shop floor
for humanity
searching, if only to
plead sanity.
Amber leaves
rattle the naked highway,
like windswept flocks from
mountains high.
Dry stone walls
history riddled shout,
along country roads
and velvet sky.
“Cuckoo Nest”
guardian of the moorside,
stone walls devoid
living blood wilt.
Millstones prise
out a condolence yet,
parched with canopy in
“Nab wood” Built.
Rock’n’Roll
ricochets upon
“Chelker” A mind in tune
harmony wise.
Bicycle
breaks the silence of night,
before rolling clouds
will the sunrise.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
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