Poets’ Corner

RAIN

Raindrops hang from the telephone wire, Others lurching down a window pane Through which I see the soaking world, Coolly fresh under grey skies. Along old tracks of time I recall the peaceful patter of rain On my mother’s brown umbrella. Surely rain fell on my first day at school, On the domes of Saturday store cafés; On days when raspberry fields were abandoned. Can l, with younger eyes, see The spirals of rain in street puddles Widening and vanishing like galaxies of time? The drops on the wire hang as precariously as

our destinies, And when the skies clear they fall, Till then, let me delight in rain. David Fleming

THE JOYS OF FEBRUARY

St Valentine’s Day; snowdrops’ game salutes; A grateful robin, coexisting fox, Both scrounging hopefuls in their fluffed out suits; The glow from stepping out to letterbox In cleansing cold, returning from the post To welcome warmth, the cosiness of home With wheeled-in trolley bearing buttered toast, And curtains drawn against the teatime gloam; The still, quiet mornings with a landscape white With thinning mist or trace of frost on grass, A watered sun diffusing kindly light. Mad March will bluster and all this will pass. Till then – the lovely last of wintertime. I think this underrated month sublime. Dorothy Pope

LAWRENCE CASTLE

Lawrence Castle is an ancient single tower, With grey stone castellated crown, It sits at the top of the hill, Miles from the nearest town. The walls are damp with a mottled hue, It stands alone, aloof and cold, A testament to medieval times, As to its history, many a story has been told. There are myths of sieges and battles, The castle was a vantage point to spy the land, Once it was busy with livestock and people, Ready to fight against any evil hand. It bears a flagpole but now there is no flag, The castle has a forlorn, sad air, Wind and rain have blasted its rugged walls, Slowly the tower has fallen into disrepair. Above the castle, hanging in the sky, Buzzards glide with silent ease, Surveying their kingdom, Riding the early morning breeze. Below the castle lies a dark wood, With elm, oak, pine and yew, A forest as timeless as England, From seedlings the trees gradually grew. In spring, Haldon Forest begins to awake, A carpet of glorious bluebells emerge on the

forest floor, A hazy mist of azure blue flowers, There is darkness no more. The bluebells and trees sway in the wind, The movement brings splashes of light, Birds sing in the trees and bushes, They sing the joys of nature with pure delight. Arthur Gordon