In a Country Church.

To one kneeling down no word came,
Only the wind`s song, saddening the lip`s
Of the grave saints, rigid in glass;
Or the dry whisper of unseen wings,
Bats not Angels, in the high roof.
R.S.Thomas.

To the Spider in the crevice behind the toilet door.

I have left you four flies
three are in the freezer next to the joint of beef
the other is wrapped in christmas paper
tied with a pink ribbon
beside the ironing table in the hall
should you need to contact me
in an emergency
the numbers in the book
by the telephone.

P.S. I love you.

Janet Sutherland.

Spring brought a flush of green wheat and there were violets under the hedges and pussy willows out beside the brook at the bottom of the `Hundred Acres`; but only for a few weeks in later Summer had the landscape real beauty. Then the ripened cornfields rippled up the doorsteps of the cottages and the hamlet became an island in a sea of dark gold.

from Letter from a far Country.

...Our milky tendernesses dry
to crisp lists: immaculate
linen; jars labelled and glossy
with our perfect preserves.
Spiced oranges; green tomato
chutney; seville orange marmalade
annually staining gold
the snows of January.

Jams and jellies of blackberry,
crabapple, strawberry, plum,
greengage and loganberry.
You can see the fruit pressing
their little faces against the glass;
tiny onions imprisioned
in their preservative juices.

Familiar days are stoned whole
in bottles. Theres a wet morning
orchard in the dandelion wine;
a while spring distilled
in elderflowers clarity;
and a loving late, sunburning
day of October in syrups
of rose hip and the beautiful
black sloes that stained the gin to rose.
Gillian Clarke.

The delicious, frail pink convolvulus resented being picked and would furl its umbrella and twirl its skirt round its knees in disgust if taken indoors.

Cuckoos.

When coltsfoot withers and begins to wear
Long silver locks instead of golden hair,
And fat red catkins from black poplars fall
And on the ground like caterpillars crawl,
And bracken lifts up slender arms and wrists
And stretches them, unfolding sleepy fists,
The Cuckoos in a few well-chosen words
Tell they give Easter eggs to the small birds.
Andrew Young.

Autumn on the Broads.

Autumn is in the air again
with colours of purple hue,
And cobwebs on the grass and fern,
are swabbed with morning mist and dew.
And our broadlands windswept
land, with distance far and wide
The cattle laze and graze,
all day, with nowhere much to hide.

There`s moorhens in the dykes
again, they hide amongst the reeds,
The pheasant browse on edgeways
paths, gathering hidden seeds
The seagulls screech, on Autumn
winds, there`s lapwings overhead,
And as the sun goes down, the
Starlings meet, before they go to bed.

The willows sway by waters edge,
and swallowed Alder`s creak,
And by the sedges on the marsh,
A home the dormouse seek,
Then over by the sunken mill, that
used to pump all day,
There is remains of swallows homes
but they have flown away.

The water rises with the tide, and
glitters in the sun.
And ripple past the old pack bridge
On Potter Heigham run.
Then past the ambered woodlands
Where herons watch all day.
The swans and ducks search along
the bank, as summer fades away.

The willow herbs have had their fun
they`re tamed by Autumn chill.
They`ve lost their colour of crimson
pink, the seeds they blow at will.
The catkins dust is blowing
amongst the tree tops high,
And most boats have left the
river now.
Looks like Summer say goodbye.

So Autumn gales go searing on
broadland, marsh and fen.
That sweep across the open land
to bend the trees again.
And through the wires the
whistling wind, is singing
Autumns song.
So say goodbye to Autumn
leaves.
Then Winter won`t be long.
R. Roberts.