Summer days are past and gone,
And colder days now hurry on.
The lily draws her  tender bloom
deep into the cloudy gloom, and
soft mists risen in the night,
turn to frost at dawns first light.
In the margins of the pond
The ice holds fast the frozen frond,
and under hill the mole curls tight,
safe and warm throughout the night,
pink paws, pink nose, a velvet coat,
all safely hidden from the stoat!
The swans, clothed in their purest white
glide, like ghosts in black of night
as safely on the lake they sleep,
while the coot and moorhen peep
in their dark and sombre suits,
from the tangled willow roots.
The fox that cunning red marauder
creeps stealthily along the border,
as the weakling winter sun
Announces a new day begun.

Dusty the miller sits on the sill
And idly waits for a turn of the mill,
but the wind is fickle and will not blow
so the sails won’t turn and the mill won’t go,
and Dusty the miller his wage can’t earn
for his blooming wife and his little bairn.
So he sends for Toby from down the lane
who sailed the seas of the Spanish Main,
and fought aboard The Prince of Wales
to whistle a wind up to drive the sails.
So Toby raised the pipe to his lips
and began to blow like they do on ships
and the notes went soaring into the sky,
to the home of the north wind bye and bye.
On hearing them the north wind draws
a mighty breath, and then he roars
and the sails of the mill begin to fill
and the last I heard they were turning still…

The plough boy wends his merry way
and whistles up the sun today.
Yesterday he made it  rain,
and ploughing was postponed again!
Tomorrow if his notes are low
Perhaps we will be in for snow.
But if his tunes are all displeasing
Expect a bitter morn-with freezing!

Soft, the swirling mist lies on the hills
and melting snow the swollen brook o’erfills,
while robin with the hawthorn  vainly vies
to show his crimson plumes to leaden skies.
In the hedgerow field mice sleeping warm
dream of summer fruits and ears of corn,
while in the valley on the frozen pond  
with heads hung low the hungry heron’s stand.
And when the snowfall quickens in the night,
the earth will lie asleep all clothed in white.
As in that wintry land long  long ago
when angels round a stable whispered low
where kings and shepherds knelt before a child,
and the earth shone pure and white.

Oh how my spirit longs to go to the oft remembered hills
to listen to the tinkling brook a dancing down the rills,
where Curlews soar majestically on high,
and soft green folds hold up a golden sky.
There in dusty lanes and scent filled air
the weary spirit flies oblivious to care,
where nature spreads her bounty over all,
and summer rains like blessings gently fall.
Come with me and we will fly
to the land of golden sky
and  tread the lanes to climb the stile
and there know sweet contentment
for awhile.

See the boy as he wanders hands in pockets around the harbour,
Observe how he watches the vessels moored against the harbour wall,
Admiring this one, frowning at another.
Watch his face as he studies each in turn,
Frowning at neglect or smiling at a well found vessel,
Admiring the clean lines and seaworthiness of another.
This one is too fine in the bow, and will bury her nose in heavy weather,
The next is too bluff bowed and a good wave will stop her dead in the water.
That other, he notes, has good solid rails to hold onto in a blow,
The next has only guard wires, harsh on the hands and set too low to be of any real use!
And this one, spotlessly clean and as smart as paint,
But it never goes to sea poor thing! It is cleaned and polished daily and the engine run, but for what?
But this old fishing boat now, see how well it is cared for! Note the grease oozing from the bearings of her tackle, see how staunch and tight her boards are! And how well painted, take note how well organized she is, a place for everything, and everything in it’s place.
This is a proper sea boat, he thinks, and calls down a greeting to the skipper.
“Hi Dad, ready for gannin oot?” “Hi son. Aye ready!”

No more shall we tread the dusty lanes of youth
or lie amidst the meadows dancing flowers,
marvelling at nature’s simple truths,
recumbent ‘neath the cherry’s florid bowers.
To drink the crystal waters of the stream
or watch the red throats in their watery home
and  gaze at Dragon flies adream
or dig for pig nuts in the sandy loam.
Deep in the bracken oft we lay
to watch the towering citadels float by,
then up again  and off once more we’d go
beneath that vast dominion of the sky.
Though sixty years and more have quickly flown
yet still the memories come flooding back,
bright memories that live in me alone
of friends like Sara, Joe and Toothless Jack.
What fun we’d have in far off distant days
at harvest when the corn was cut and bound,
we’d help the farmer build it into stooks,
like little houses on the stubbly ground.
In winter when the north wind brought us snow
our sledges from the coal house we’d all bring,
and joyfully, with faces all aglow
heedless of the bitter wind we’d sing!
A candle in a jam jar for a light
hung from a stick and held on high,
would cast long shadows in the wintry night
that followed us wherever we passed by.
Gleefully we’d breach the wind blown drifts
and make our tunnels in the spotless snow,
hoping that the blizzard never lifts,
as through the fields and byways we would go.
But now all things are changed for good or ill,
The wind comes from the south and brings us rain
I think this nothing but a bitter pill,
and would make the howling North Wind King again!