A Walk in England's Garden
17 February 2007
A rare sunny day, as sometimes comes in February, in England. A walk across the park to the woods leads to a chance farewell to an old familiar tree. Custodian of the whimsy page 'A Walk in England's Garden'; sadly, now reduced to logs. As chance would have it, I was there this very morning to say goodbye.
Oh, hurry Spring! I wait and wait
For you to come at last;
To see the flowers, the lambs, long hours, green grass -
Oh, hurry Spring!
All through the winter you lie, hid away from human eyes;
and , when you come, we - every one -
can feast upon your joys.
But I canít wait.
Pictures I paint
of you upon my mind.
To roam the fields, to smell the flowers
that, so long, have been blind.
Three precious months you have
to reign oíer this, now precious, land;
most colourful, picturesque, heavenly months
spread with sweet Springís own hands.
So hurry, Spring.
The tall, bare trees all yearn for buds so green;
As do we all, within our hearts,
long for the fresh new spring.
* * * * *
The beauty of flowers in the Springtime;
The wonder of leaves in the Fall;
I never cease to wonder
at the beauty of it all.
Godís glory is shown in the sky at night,
with all the stars above;
these things, they show His mercy;
they reveal his tender love.
The call of the wren in the morning;
The rustling of wind through the trees;
My heart is filled with wonder
as I watch the illustrious bees.
A sparrow flies up from the meadow
to the wide, wide heavens above;
My feet are longing to walk
through the evidence of Godís love.
Just three more weeks of this longing;
Twenty-one days of school;
Then I shall be free to wander and roam
and take part in it all.
* * * * *
18th November 1973
The trees sleep tonight;
Hiding their weary limbs
In that mist of darkness
Which hides everything;
Darkness, lending poor protection
to lazy Night;
who is no match
for the Sun Warrior;
Stealer of darkness, weariness and sleep.
* * *
6th February 1975
The tree, it stands alone out there;
Arms offered to the sky;
It doesnít know its raison díÍtre
as all else passes by.
The countryfolk all know the tree
and rest beneath its shade.
Mute promise scratched in shady bark
remembers boy and maid.
The wheels of Time have cycled passed;
with War and Peace astride;
with Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall;
to leave no scars inside.
Iíve wandered through the fields of Fate
and been all I could be;
but should, perhaps, have been the tree;
and let all come to me.
* * * * * * *