Tiny buds of purple, peek from in the ochre heather.
And nesting pheasants fuss, as I stroll by.
The ‘God light’ pokes strong fingers through the warring western clouds.
As the Sun, combs amber furrows, through the bruised and bleeding sky.
In the vales, the apple blossoms, speckle snowy patterns.
With promises of Nature’s bounteous yields.
The Lambs are growing stronger, and they stray now from the Yews.
And Daffodil, etch golden lines, where hedges cut the fields.
Patches of green can now be seen, on copse and ancient woodland.
Vestiges of life; where mighty forests, once did swell.
So different, the economy, of ‘civil service’ Pines.
That march like sombre soldiers, on the softly rounded fell.
Sunlight swings an arc of hope, along a winding river,
Lighting silver ribbon; and froth, of waterfalls.
Then it dances in the dell before it polishes the Ivy,
That clings with faith unbending, to old Monastery walls.
High upon a moorland seat, I watch the shifting shadows.
Unenvious of those today, who dwell in desert lands.
Although in truth I’m blessed; for I too have seen the magic,
Of the swirling Djinns, and Moonlit mounds, of endless tawny sands.
