Wishing Willows
I knew a place down by the brook
where, in the breeze, the willows shook
and wary hare's in summers haze
would leap and sport among the maize,
startling pheasants into flight
who'd hurdle hedgerows burning bright
with campion and bramble wild
reminding me that when a child
I'd pick their fruit, me and my brother,
and take them home to our dear mother
who'd make a pie with pastry rich
in butter with eggs and sugar, which
we'd stuff our faces with ‘til replete,
what I'd give once more to meet
in that place down by the brook
where, in the breeze, the willows shook.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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