Cheerful, chirping little cherry---
crimson as the holly berry,
dressed in your vermillion best
with your pointy, feathered crest---
what a sight you are to see
perched atop a snowy tree.
Songful spirit of the pines,
streaking through the winter sky,
ne'er does your appearance cease
to bring a smile to my face.
Beau Brummell of backyard birds,
every dawn your song is heard---
distinctly sweet among the chorus
of the visitors from the forest---
brightening night's waning gloom
like the color of your plumes.
Friendly, feathered garden gnome,
be pleased to make this yard your own.
Winter, summer, fall or spring,
joy is when the redbird sings.
Nelly my mum was 87 on June -7th -11
her Writings at ...
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
My sweet little momma still lives in her house. independently.
ELLEN MAY JOHNSON. (Beau Brummell is her great Uncle)
Yes Ellen Brummell was her name, our good sweet Mother dear .
We wouldn`t trade this girl so game, I`ll surely make that clear.
When droving sheep with her we went, back in the early fifties.
She drove the truck wherever sent, and set up camp so swiftly .
She fed the mob and kept us neat, and educated too.
She always was so good and sweet, of mother this is true.
She always gave us of her best, waited on us hand and foot.
With such a mother we were blessed, these words I`ve poorly put.
If ever with her down you set, She`ll fill your plate my friend.
The fastest meal you`ll ever get, If not your arm she`ll bend.
How she ever put up with our mob, watched over us with care.
Only mother could just do the job, of this of course I swear.
So when you see her run about, too busy to sit down.
Just you she waits on have no doubt, or some stranger from the town.
Don JohnsonConstance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Contest Name 'Mother'
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