Morning in Norfolk
As it has for so long
come wind and all weather
the house glimmers among
the mists of a little
river that splinters, it
seems, a landscape of
winter dreams. In the far
fields stand a few
bare trees decorating
those mists like the fanned
patterns of Georgian
skylights. The home land
of any heart persists
there, suffused with
memories and mists not
quite concealing the
identities and lost
lives of those loved once
but loved most. They haunt it
still. To the watermeadows
that lie by the heart they
return as do flocks of swallows
to the fields they have known
and flickered and flown so
often and so unforgettably over.
What fish
play in the bright wishing
wells of your painted
stretches, O secret
untainted little Bure,
I could easily tell,
for would they not be
those flashing dashers
the sometimes glittering
presentiments, images
and idealizations
of what had to be?
The dawn has brightened the
shallows and shadows and
the Bure sidles and idles
through weed isles and fallen
willows, and under
Itteringham Mill, and
there is a kind of rain-
drenched flittering in the
air, the night swan still
sleeps in her wings and over it all
the dawn heaps up the hanging
fire of the day.
Fowell's tractor blusters
out of its shed and drags
a day's work, like a piled sled
behind it. The crimson
December morning brims over
Norfolk, turning
to burning Turner
this aqueous water colour
idyll that earlier gleamed
so green that it seemed
drowned. What further
sanction, what blessing
can the man of heart intercede for
than the supreme remission
of dawn? For then the mind
looking backward upon its
too sullied yesterday,
the rotting stack of
resolution and refuse,
reads in the rainbowed sky
a greater covenant,
the tremendous pronouncement:
the day forgives.
Holy the heart in
its proper occupation
praising and appraising this
godsend, the dawn.
Will you lift up your eyes
my blind spirit and see
such evidence of
forgiveness in the heavens
morning after golden
morning than even
the blind can see?
poem by George Barker
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Related quotes
The Cold Winds Of January
Last night in my dreams i did hear the winds roar
Above the old high fields of far Claramore
A cold Winter moon crept behind clouds to hide
And on the bleak hillside the hungry fox cried
And a bird so distinctive even in his wild cry
The screech of the barn owl echoed in the sky
A Winter's night in January by old Clara hill
The howling of the wind drowned out the babble of the rill
That towards the big river downland ever does flow
Through many a field and by many a hedgerow
Old jack frost of January is in the cold air
And the hedgerows and deciduous trees of their foliage are bare
And the cold winds of January in the dead of night roar
Above the old bare fields of high Claramore.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Late October In Ireland
The leaves from the trees are beginning to fall
And the caterpillar seeks a crack in the wall
The month of October is slipping away
And Winter comes closer with each passing day.
The garden flowers have disappeared from the lawn
And the salmon are moving up river to spawn
And the days getting shorter and the nights growing long
And the thrushes and finches no longer in song.
The rain fall in drizzle from sky gloomy gray
And cattle in wet pasture are bellowing for hay
And farmer depressed for the Winter he fear
And fodder quite scarce due to very wet year.
Hedgerows lose their colour as winds strip them bare
And Winter approaching 'the signs everywhere'
And grass growth almost ended and grass not so green
And wildflowers disappearing and few to be seen.
The wind blowing colder and the river in flood
And the water bank high flow the colour of mud
Late October in Ireland and Winter so near
And song birds grown silent and weather severe.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Autumnale for M lady ernestine
The falling leaves dance in the breeze
and clothe the ground beneath the trees,
in autumn colours rich a rare.
The trees themselves will soon be bare.
Left no defence against the wind.
Their winter plans are well designed,
bare twigs and branches hold less snow
than useless leaves they have let go
The wintry gales to no avail
try hard but they are doomed to fail,
They can’t destroy the sturdy trees;
resisting with apparent ease.
Although they bow before the blast
they know that winter cannot last
The winds will die and fade away
the trees will they’re here to stay.
Spring will return the trees will green
as if the winter had not been.
The trees put on their new spring clothes
along with every plant that grows.
8-Oct-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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What Weather
The leaves are blowing away
Up, up, and away they go.
Swish, swoosh, they go.
Like a dancing ballerina
Up, up and away they go
Way up , in the sky.
The trees standing there,
Their branches all bare.
The wind whistling throughout empty branches,
The trees look scary, swish, swoosh,
The wind is getting louder,
Throughout the trees it howls
The trees are blowing
From side to side
Like someone dancing swiftly,
The clouds in the sky are moving quietly
Is the weather ever going to change,
What weather it is today
poem by Angela Fletcher
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Fall is here!
The days are shorter
The suns rays are dimer
The wind starts to feel
Closer to winter
Trees leaves turn colors
Birds fly to where its warmer
The animals that can't fly
Prepare for the cold weather
Nights come quicker
The chilly breezes
Make you wear clothes
That are thicker
Trees leaves start to fall
At night the wind
Start to whisper
The season is changing
Time has fell back
This means winter is gaining
Nature is most precious
When the weather is changing
Hot long days and warmer nights
Traded for cool short days and chilly nights
Summer is over and fall is here!
poem by Jaycee Wilkerson
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Winters passing
Winters passing
~
A winter passed into day
In the morning sun I saw
Frost melt in the early light
The garden filled with dew
And birds return to sing
The night is going soon
Winter is passing away
The bare trees stand tall
Swaying gently to the wind
Which blows from the east
A season of change
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Symbol
The winter apples have been picked, the garden turned.
Rain and wind have picked the maple leaves and gone.
The last of them now bank the house or have been burned.
None are left upon the trees or on the lawn.
Green and tall as ever it grew in spring the grass
Grows not too tall, will not be cut again this year.
Geraniums in bloom behind the windowglass
Are safe. Fall has fallen yet winter is not yet here.
How warm the late November sun although how wan.
The white house stands a symbol of fulfillment there,
Housing one old woman, a cat, and one old man
After abundance but before the earth is bare.
poem by Robert Francis
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The Doves
The house where I was born,
Where I was young and gay,
Grows old amid its corn,
Amid its scented hay.
Moan of the cushat dove,
In silence rich and deep;
The old head I love
Nods to its quiet sleep.
Where once were nine and ten
Now two keep house together;
The doves moan and complain
All day in the still weather.
What wind, bitter and great,
Has swept the country's face,
Altered, made desolate
The heart-remembered place ?
What wind, bitter and wild,
Has swept the towering trees
Beneath whose shade a child
Long since gathered heartease ?
Under the golden eaves
The house is still and sad,
As though it grieves and grieves
For many a lass and lad.
The cushat doves complain
All day in the still weather;
Where once were nine or ten
But two keep house together.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Winter's Come
Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn;
The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun;
That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn,
What a strange scene before us now does run--
Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun;
White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare;
The sycamore all withered in the sun.
No leaves are now upon the birch tree there:
All now is stript to the cold wintry air.
See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves--
And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue.
The winter chill on his cold bed receives
Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue.
Naked and bare the leafless trees repose.
Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare,
Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows;
That is not green, which was so through the year
Dark chill November draweth to a close.
Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors,
When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high;
While on the window shutters the wind roars,
And storms like furies pass remorseless by.
How pleasant on a feather bed to lie,
Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soar
With Dante or with Milton to regions high,
Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before,
Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.
poem by John Clare
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The Whispering Wind
like the whispering wind you sent to me
like the hopeless time you gave to me
i watched your dreams all slip away
i watched your dreams all slip away
there's a hopeless place inside my heart
when i look inside i see where we are
like the whispering wind in the top of the trees
i will watch the sky come following me
like the rain on my windows late every night
like the hope i have for us every time
it's like the whispering wind in the top of the trees
i see it sway as you come for me
there's a whispering wind i feel it inside
like a place i can feel but never will see
let a whisper come touch you come touch every thing
i stand in the way of the things i can be
let the whispering wind come lift us away
let it push us apart if we wish to stay
you're my sweetness my baby my love for all time
like the whispering wind it makes you all mine
like the whispering wind you stand here with me
like the whispering wind you stand here with me
i see your dreams all slip away
slip away
slip away
slip away
song performed by by Moby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In January In Duhallow
The cold winds of January from the north east does blow
And the weather is cold quite cold enough for to snow
And the hungry birds silent on the naked hedgerow
In the flat and rushy fields where the Blackwater flow.
January in Duhallow from here far away
In the chill of the morning the frost bound fields gray
In the farmyard sheds cattle bellow for silage or hay
Where the sun seldom shines on a January day.
The distinctive harsh caws of the silver backed crow
In the Season where grass does refuse for to grow
And few cars on the roadway that leads to the town
Near where the river flows bank high in flood waters of brown.
In January in Duhallow the old fields looking bare
With the harsh chill of Winter in the cold Morning air
And at least eight long weeks till the first breath of Spring
When Nature will bloom and her wild birds will sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Back There In Old Duhallow The Frosty Fields Are Gray
Back there in old Duhallow the frosty fields are gray
And the wildborn birds are silent at the dawning of the day
And the chilly winds of January sough in the naked trees
And ice is on the dark pond from the hard overnight freeze
In January in Duhallow the hedgerows looking bare
And in the rushy field by the river the shy and elusive hare
In the greyness of his surroundings quite visible in his coat of brown
For to warm the coldness in his bones through the rushes racing up and down
From the fields of old Duhallow the Spring seems far away
And the cattle in the farm-yard shed are bellowing for hay
And hungry birds by the back door squabble over crusts of bread
And before the warmth of Spring weeks of cold weather ahead
And the chirping house sparrows in the back-yard the only birds one does hear
Back there in old Duhallow tis a cold time of the year.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ancient Season
eastern wind blows kissing plants
feeling something new but memorable
it is a brand-new day and way
I have never met you but there is something memorable
I rethink what it is
I felt myself being in a long winter
someone said
When winter comes, something good would come along next
eastern wind blows me again
take all the things considered
watching all trees covered in pink
sitting under one of the trees
the wind comes provoking me into rethinking of what is going on
what must be spring
Winter Wonderland
There are strange and mysterious sounds
When the winds of winter blow,
The long nights are crystal clear and cold,
And the fields and meadows are covered with snow.
The stars are frosty against the sky,
And the wind's whistle is shrill,
As the snow blows against the house
And drifts against the hill.
Yet, I like to see during the winter
A white carpet on the ground,
To plod aimlessly in the deep snow,
where deer tracks abound.
I like to feel the stillness
Of a crisp winter's night,
Watching a full moon rise over the horizon,
Exposing a winter wonderland beautiful and bright.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Heavy Rain
Fields everywhere, now are completely sodden.
No more can their surfaces be safely trodden.
The grass in the fields was all turning brown,
But now, I fear that the fields could drown.
This year, it looked like we were facing a drought,
But now, I can’t believe how much rain is about.
It rains all day long, without even a pause.
Only by the plants, is all this rain is adored.
On the roads, there are massive puddles.
In the fields, under trees, the cattle huddle.
I know we all said we wanted the rain,
But now, it’s becoming a bit of a pain.
There are grey skies constantly overhead,
And I’m not that tempted to leave my bed.
The water in the fields will take ages to go,
And, now many of the vegetables won’t grow.
In this weather, you're constantly soaking wet,
And, by many a gloomy face, are you often met.
At any moment, I fear there’ll be a thunder storm.
This weather makes me feel very far from warm.
Every day, there is more heavy downfalls forecast,
How much longer can this dreadful weather last?
Even the weather forecaster gives a sympathetic look.
This weather is really pretty bad, even by his book.
In the towns, the High Streets are somewhat deserted.
On some roads, floods cause the traffic to be diverted.
Leaves and general rubbish clutter up the drains,
So that, on the road surfaces, the water will remain.
It’s summertime, and the weather is supposed to be hot,
But we’ve had all this rain lately, so obviously it’s not.
People everywhere are cancelling their summer barbeques;
Informing all their guests of the rather disappointing news.
There was a time when summer was hot and winter was cold,
But, into one, the seasons now seemed to have been rolled.
The whole nation over, organisers are cancelling events,
While fed up campers are speedily packing up their tents.
What the weather would be like, you once were able to guess,
But it’s all turned topsy-turvy and is now a real bloomin’ mess.
In an ideal world, during the day, the sun could shine nice and bright,
Then the rain could fall for hours on end, as long as it was only at night.
A healthy mixture of sun and rain is what we really need;
Both of which are needed to germinate newly sown seeds.
I really do wish that this constant rain would just go away;
Allowing us to carry out activities, we’d planned for the day.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Changing Seasons
Trees begin to shed
their clothing,
leaves change colors
turning brown then
gold,
falling from their
homes,
to be blown away.
they stand alone
bare in distress
for all to see.
the wind whistles
through the pines,
there's a chill in
the air.
close the door
gently,
days become bitter
cold,
winter has arrived.
poem by Heather Burns
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Until they lose everything
In the Springtime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beautiful flowers
In the Summertime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beloved fruits
In the Autumn time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most painful leaves
In the Winter time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their hope.
And the wind beats again those trees
Until they lose
Their most important spring buds
Again and again
Until they lose their sap
Moreover
The wind beats the trees
Until they collapse down
To the ground.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Transition
A little while to walk with thee, dear child;
To lean on thee my weak and weary head;
Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild,
The leafless trees are black, the leaves long dead.
A little while to hold thee and to stand,
By harvest-fields of bending golden corn;
Then the predestined silence, and thine hand,
Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn.
A little while to love thee, scarcely time
To love thee well enough; then time to part,
To fare through wintry fields alone and climb
The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art.
Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire,
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Winter Arrival
t was a typical winter day
As I went for a little drive
I wanted to celebrate
For winter had arrived
I bundled up and took
My morning country trip
But as I got out of my car
I was careful I didn’t slip
For the fields were white
The road was slick with ice
But everything was lacy
It looked so fresh and nice
My world was transformed
To a winter wonderland
The ugly trees now lovely
Nature made its annual stand
I hope you see the beauty too
‘Course you’ll think about survival
When you have a white out scene
During nature’s winter arrival!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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The Thunder Cracks In The Gray Sky
The thunder cracks in the gray sky and the rain it is bucketing down
Above the high and dry and bare paddocks by the river that flows by the town
On those paddocks that need heaps of rain it has been awhile since they were green
This countryside is looking dry 'tis as dry as it ever has been
His feathers soaked wet from the rain the magpie flutes on the blackwood tree
From it's drenched leaves the rain drips and drips by the river that flows to the sea
To the river adown the bare hill the water in rivulets run
As soon as the rain will have stopped they will quickly dry out in the sun
The Summer has been warm and dry and the long range weather forecast is for a dry Fall
An hour of heavy thunder rain of little use though better than nothing at all
For months the farmers have been praying for rain their prayers in part answered today
But the sun shines across the brown hills and the rain clouds are clearing away
And the magpie shakes his feathers dry and no rain drops left to drip from the trees
And white butterflies flitting about in the sunshine and feshening breeze.
poem by Francis Duggan
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