Category: Poetry

A Lively Place

Nature Trail

At the bottom of my garden
There’s a hedgehog and a frog
And a lot of creepy-crawlies
Living underneath a log,
There’s a baby daddy long legs
And an easy-going snail
And a family of woodlice,
All are on my nature trail.

There are caterpillars waiting
For their time to come to fly,
There are worms turning the earth over
As ladybirds fly by,
Birds will visit, cats will visit
But they always chose their time
And I’ve even seen a fox visit
This wild garden of mine.

Squirrels come to nick my nuts
And busy bees come buzzing
And when the night time comes
Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,
My garden mice are very shy
And I’ve seen bats that growl
And in my garden I have seen
A very wise old owl.

My garden is a lively place
There’s always something happening,
There’s this constant search for food
And then there’s all that flowering,
When you have a garden
You will never be alone
And I believe we all deserve
A garden of our own.

Benjamin Zephaniah

No More

The Vanishing Chestnut

On yonder hill
A twisted silhouette against a leaden sky
With limbs forever bare
A giant chestnut stands,

A gray ghost gesturing of years gone by.
Tassels of velvet cream no more it bears
Nor notched leaf, nor smooth brown-hulled nuts;
No rising tide of earthen drink

Stirs twigs to growth again;
No more the sleek brown sprouts are ventured forth
In quest of sun and air and life;
The very roots are dead.

The wind in its gaunt branches whines a tune
Of grief for fallen fellows of its kind:
“No more, no more, tall trees, no more,
Lone remnant of a broken line!”

Eunice Y. McAlexander–The Mountain Laurel (1983)

Splendid Carpet

Autumn Tapestry

The autumn leaves are tracing
Wild patterns in their flight,
Cascading, swirling in the wind,
Reluctant to alight.

The ground now crisply covered
In shades of red and gold,
Is like a splendid carpet,
Enchanting to behold.

This autumn beauty, soon to fade
Will feel cold winter’s sting
As all the trees now barren
Await the kiss of spring.

Glenna Wallace Moles–The Mountain Laurel (1983)


The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
Rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry–Collected Poems