Thinking of home

I’m thinking, thinking all the time
of home and all it means to me -
of frosty morn’s and chilling nights
whose canopies of sparking light
enhance the air with fantasy;
and then I feel the world’s all mine.

Creeping mists in hollows
and the damp earthy smell of rain -
sunset over barren trees
whose ageing boughs have seen
countless times the winds that blow
in mad March days or Autumn’s rain
that scatters all their leaves -
and brown replaces green.

I heard a cuckoo yesterday
calling from the woods:
through the snow by the way
that leads across the meadows sods
I saw a daffodil emerge
a week ago. No more snow
which graced the countryside through Winter’s dirge
remains now Spring is calling: winds have blown
away the mists and rains have scoured
the moorland snow - grass and furze
are now by the hills embowered -
nature’s present beauty surpasses all words.

The swallows dive and bees hum
in drowsy backwaters overhung
with sad old willows; dragonflies
flash brightly in the Sun
and bulrushes sleep where water lies
in stillness, all its ripples gone:
red admirals and painted ladies
play above the reedy maces
whose tall green stems there proudly stand
in honour of their native land.

Towering, reddening, rocky cliffs
and wooded slopes with twisting paths
explore I once again -
and sparkling seas that know no wrath
’til after Autumn’s fall
are dancing, dancing once again -
all my thoughts are lost in happiness
as night descends upon the winding lanes.

Leaves of green and golden brown
are falling, falling once again;
suburban streets are carpeted
by the evening gown of sleepy sycamores:
Autumn gales are striking dead
Summer’s past and passing beauty -
open fields are still and bare
now that harvest time is gone
and farmers till them darker brown.