The birch tree there

White thorn wild cherry & the poplar bare

The sycamore all withered in the sun

No leaves are now upon the birch tree there

All now is stript to the cold wintry air

See not one tree but what has lost its leaves

& yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue

The winter chill on his cold bed receives

Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue

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Muse in silence

When summer ceases to be green
& winter bare & blea—
Death may forget what I have been
But I must cease to be

When words refuse before the crowd
My Marys name to give
The muse in silence sings aloud
& there my love will live

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Image by my friend #CarryAkroyd

Dithering sit

The boy that scareth from the spiry wheat
The melancholy crow - in hurry weaves
Beneath an ivied tree his sheltering seat
Of rushy flags & sedges tied in sheaves
Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves
There he doth dithering sit & entertain
His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves
Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en
& wishing in his heart twas summer-time again

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In sheltered spots

Where slanting banks are always with the sun
The daisy is in blossom even now;
And where warm patches by the hedges run
The cottager when coming home from plough
Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set.
Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met
Setting up little tents about the fields
In sheltered spots.--Primroses when they get
Behind the woods old roots where ivy shields

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A merry throng

And singers too a merry throng
At early morn wi simple skill
Yet imitate the angels song
And chant their christmass ditty still
And mid the storm that dies and swells
By fits-in humings softly steals
The music of the village bells
Ringing round their merry peals

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Image by my friend #CarryAkroyd

Wreaths of snow

Een winter deemed so desolate a waste

Hath crowds of beautys to the man of taste

& oft he walks about on quiet days

Full many things to notice & to praise

Where oer the snow clad fields the little feet

Of hares are printed that betray their seat

& woods so still he een may hear the sound

Of small wrens footsteps oer the heaving ground

While trees & branches make a splendid show

Of lights & shadows hung in wreaths of snow

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Hidden Treasures

For the "What can we get xxxxxx in your life"... a blatant suggestion... I still have copies of "Hidden Treasures'" (first published Aug 2016) for sale. The fruits of several years labour in the John Clare Archives - most of the poems/prose therin are published for the first time. £7.50 plus P&P.  Drop me a line… Find out for yourself what all the fuss is about!

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