Priory Woods June 2012

It's like a traditional meadow, Mixed grasses tossed and blown Bobbing and swaying until the day It's high and ready to be mown. There are thistles, buttercups, clover, Such a mixture to make a tasty hay I do hope it won't be wasted come That eventual harvest day. The little Hawthorn sapling Has blossomed a shade of Of pink or maybe even red Am not good at Colours but I can see it in my head. I sit on the seat every week After my long slow walk, Sometimes I play her music, But always I talk: Tell her how I'm trying To get on with a life And how I still miss The companion of my life. Every week, although I try tears stream down my face When it's time to go and leave her in this peaceful place Where the deer graze the roses Birds fly haphazardly to and fro, Where insects hum and buzz and Windblown grasses sway and flow