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
Copyright © Terry Ireland | Year Posted 2022
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