Rut-rifted lane

The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane

Where the wild roses hang & the woodbines entwine
& the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again
Round the side of the tavern close by the sign
The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen,
In curtains the richest that ever were seen

The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain
& beating the hedges low fly the barn owls
The moon with her horns is just peeping again
& deep in the forest the dog-badger howls
In best bib & tucker then wanders my Jane
By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane

#poetry #environment 

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My last shilling

O dismal disaster O troublesome lot 
What a heart rending theme for my musing Ive got 
Then pray whats the matter O friend Im not willing 
The thought grieves me sore 
Now Im drove to the shore 
& must I then spend the last shilling the shilling 
& must I then spend the last shilling 

O painful reflection thou whole of my store 
That for these three months in my breeches Ive wore 
To spend thee to spend thee that thought turns me chilling 
O must I in spight 
Of all reason this night 
A Farwell bid to my last shilling my shilling 
A Farwell bid to my last shilling

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Turnd to night

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose
Crouching & sleeping 'neath its grassy lair
& scarcely startles tho' the shepherd goes 
Close by its home & dogs are barking there
The wild colt only turns around to stare 
At passer by then knaps his hide again
& moody crows beside the road forbear 
To fly tho' pelted by the passing swain
Thus day seems turnd to night & tries to wake in vain
The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon
& flaps her grey wings in the doubting light
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon
& small birds chirp & startle with affright

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Sudden shower

Stopt by the storm that long in sullen black
From the south west stained its encroaching track
Haymakers hustling from the rain to hide
Sought the grey willows by the pasture side
& there while big drops bow the grassy stems
& bleb the withering hay with pearly gems
Dimple the brook & patter in the leaves

The song or tale an hours restraint relieves
& while the old dames gossip at their ease

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Bluebells

Bluebells how beautifull & bright they look 
Bowed oer green moss & pearled in morning dew 
Shedding a shower of pearls as soon as shook 
In every wood hedgegap theyre shineing through 
Smelling of spring & beautifully blue 
Childhood & Spring how beautifully dwells 
Their memories in the woods we now walk through 
O balmy days of spring in white thorn dells 
How beautifull are woods & their bluebells

Image: Late flowering bluebells on Dartmoor.  

Always an amazing sight.

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Daisys

While on the sunny bank the daisys seem

With smiling charms to court the clowns esteem

Nor do they spread their smiling charms in vain

His bosom warms enrapturd at the sight

With secret pleasure & unknown delight

His swelling soul to memorys treasure flies

& strives to speak—but Ignorance denies

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Rural sounds

& lowing steers that hollow echoes wake
Around the yard their nightly fast to break
As from each barn the lumping flail rebounds
In mingling concert with the rural sounds
While oer the distant fields more faintly creep
The murmuring bleatings of unfolding sheep
& ploughmans callings that more hoarse proceed
Where industry still urges labours speed
The bellowing of cows with udders full
That wait the welcome halloo of “come mull”

& rumbling waggons deafening again
Rousing the dust along the narrow lane
& cracking whips & shepherds hooting cries
From woodland echoes urging sharp replies

#poetry #environment 

#honesty

Comments welcome below