|Different Worlds||The Urban Fox||Painted Gardens|
|Standing quietly in the woods
Taking note of what’s around
Catching sight of grey squirrels
Running up the trees and down
I listen to a rustling sound
Within the ferns and brambles
I spot a prickly hedgehog
Finding snacks as he rambles
He’s going about his business
Quite unaware of me
Now he vanishes out of sight
Behind an old oak tree
I hear the birds singing
And a chorus of humming bees
I’m standing in a different world
A magical world of trees
|In bins and bags she scavenges
In the middle of the night
Over garden walls she jumps
Keeping well out of sight
On the garden allotments
It's a rough and tumble game
The three cubs are playing
Every night it is the same
She's been back to feed them
Several times to and fro
Now she's finding her own meal
Then homeward bound she'll go
So angry is the gardener
When he surveys the scene
While underneath the potting shed
The culprits sleep serene
|The bright yellow Iris
Swaying in the breeze
Bring a dash of colour
Beneath the rustling trees
The red of Geraniums
Sparkling in the rain
And blue of Lobelia
Provide a pretty frame
No need to paint a picture
To hang upon the wall
Just look into the garden
The Creator does it all
|Sunlight in the early morning
Dew upon the ground
Birds singing to each other
There is no sweeter sound
Ripples on the water
Grass swaying in the breeze
I want no more contentment
Than to sit and ponder these
|A single bird alone in the tree
In the garden, sings joyfully
Starting just before the dawn
He heralds in a bright new morn
Thrush and Starling now wide awake
A lovely chorus they all do make
But in their song can still be heard
The joyous sound of one blackbird
|It takes more than falling in love
And going on honeymoon
To make a marriage that lasts
Through the good times and bad
It takes lots of sharing and caring
Respecting each others funny ways
To be good companions forever
Till the end of your days
|The next three peoms are about cats, though I don't have one, I find them interesting to watch and have tried to draw with words what I observe.|
|Keep Out||New Neighbour||In the Garden|
|Crouched low, tails twitching
They confront each other.
Tabby cat and interloper
No more hiding under cover.
All thoughts of hunting gone
At the moment of their meeting,
Tabby cat antagonistic
This is no friendly greeting.
Black cat not giving way
As tabby’s warning sounds,
Tension mounting between them
She moves across the ground.
Like lightening she strikes
Claws fully extended.
Pretence all gone, he runs
Their confrontation ended.
|I sit on her wall grooming my fur
As she walks by I give her a stare.
Then gently meow in my sweetest way
There is no reaction, why I can’t say.
I try something else that usually works
I curl round her legs just under her skirts.
She tells me to shoo and sniffles a bit
I’m the nicest of cats I can’t understand it.
She takes out a hankie and blows her nose
Oh! A cold I'm off, I don't want one of those.
|Eyes half closed she watches
In the garden where she lays.
Basking in warm sunlight
On this bright sunny day.
The wind blows the leaves
Across the paving stones.
Their dry and crinkly edges
Making scraping skittering tones.
Intrigued the cat moves
To investigate the noise,
Pats and pounces on them
Till she tires of her toys.
She stalks around the garden
Mistress of all she surveys,
Then yawns and stretches lazily
She’s had a busy day.
She curls up in a corner
That’s as warm as toast,
And dreams of all the good things
She likes to do the most.
|The next three poems include two written from my earliest memories and the third was written about a different kind of remembering.|
|Footrints in my Mind||Days in the Park||Remember Me|
|Was it so long ago we went four to the beach?
With a bottle of water and a jam sandwich each.
How happily we walked the two miles there
Tramping over the foot bridge with never a care.
We paddled in pools left by the sea
Searching where crabs and winkles might be.
Built sand castles with shells stuck into the sides
Dug deep moats we would fill with the tide.
Made flags on sticks we pushed into the top
Then the tide would come in and force us to stop.
With a shriek of delight a new game would begin
Dashing in and out the water getting wet to the skin.
The wind turned cool as we tired of our play
And we’d turn to go home at the end of the day.
I’d look back to see where our castles had been
But only our foot prints were left to be seen.
|I remember those days when we went to the park
Dad bringing along his homemade bat
He would bowl at the wicket then shout "Howzat!"
And the children would call "Granddad's not fair at all"
The adults and children all milling around
The ball would be lost and then it would be found
Children and Parents enjoying the lark
We had so much fun when we met in the park.
|When you look through a child's eyes to see
The sunset painting red upon a tree
When you see cobwebs sparkle with dew
And help a child see the world anew
When enquiring minds ask "Grandma is that true?"
And you launch upon an answer with words a few
When you feel with joy each new day unfold
Then a child says "Grandma, are you old?"
|The first of the next three is a memory from childhood and strangely it ties in with a short story my sister Kath wrote for the 30th Edition of our Family Magazine, she also has good memories of the railway bridge.|
|I stand alone on the empty bridge that spans the railway line.
As my memory transports me back fifty years or more in time.
The sights and sounds come rushing in from those days so long ago.
I hear once more the rumbling hissing noise of trains moving to and fro.
As a child I gripped the grimy railings getting soot on hands and clothes.
Risking mother's words of condemnation, oh yes, now I remember those.
I watched the sturdy black trains working, puffing steam full of soot and grime.
Busy shunting clanking lines of coal trucks up and down the railway line.
I saw wondrously shining locomotives speeding to - I know not where.
I could only guess at destinations, but I always longed to travel there.
The bridge brings these memories of my childhood I’d thought lost in the past.
I smile, whisper thanks, walk down the steps and go on my way at last.
|After Work||Pencil and Rubber|
|I used to like going window shopping
When I finished work for the day.
I’d wander around top town for an hour
and think about spending my pay.
In and out of shops just looking
Maybe examining things here and there.
Then into the café to buy a hot chocolate
And sit down for a rest in a chair.
Some days I’d meet up with my sister
Then together we’d go look at shoes.
But we’d usually end up in the café
Discussing the ones we didn’t choose.
I no longer go window shopping
Now I’m retired and live out of town.
Because we only pay flying visits
So there’s no time for wandering around
|I’m in favour of writing in pencil
For when words put down are not right
I just take out my eraser
And rub them right out of sight.
My poems are sometimes quite rambling
With too many words to read
So I take out my favourite rubber
And erase the ones I don’t need.
That’s the thing I like about pencils
I can leave my words to be seen
Or remove them entirely
And keep my page neat and clean.
|Having lived through World War II we kids enjoyed a freedom today's children can hardly comprehend, it's expressed in the next poem and the one after is a memory of my late brother, I was six and he nearly eight.|
|Wonderful Days||Our Brian|
|As children we played hopscotch
My friends and me
We played in the streets
Safe as can be.
We turned long ropes
As we skipped in a line
Saying as we jumped
A counting rhyme.
We played many games
For hours on end
We amused ourselves
Did me and my friends.
No expensive toys for us
Just rope, chalk and a ball
But hours of endless fun
Was had by all.
|While digging in the garden
The other afternoon
I found lots of wriggling worms
Every Gardener's boon.
They reminded me of another day
So many years past
Digging with my elder brother
Concentrating on our task.
In a box a squawking baby bird
Not yet fully fledged
"It's fallen from it's nest
And needs feeding" he said.
Our Brian was always finding things
To look after or mend
From hedgehogs to broken toys
It was a life long trend.
Recalling now as I garden
Those far off days
I'm glad to have remembered
Our Bry's funny little ways.
|Click on the Link for my next page|
|Audrey - Poetry Part 2|
|Audrey - Poetry Part 3|
|Page by: © Audrey Goodwin Dec 2018|
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