Who could ask for more?
than to sit beside the river
on it's perpetual,headlong journey,
in the green and verdant valley of the Wye.
Where the ever changing seasons
in their rich and timeless harmony
bring a new delight to please the eye.
Where meadows,rich and fertile,
reach up to meet the woodland
standing proud and green against the sky.
See the salmon catch the sunlight,
hear the constant conversations
of the bird life as they swoop and soar so high.
Smell the sweet scent of the leaf mould
catch the spirit of the moment
who could ask for more?
Not I.

In summer, when the sun is warm
We frolic as nature shows its charm
Living in the moment, feeling bold
We forget winter can be bitter cold.

In summer, I am convicted to stay
I have my own role to play
Being myself, no fear, no shame
Taking risks, but no blame.

It is winter.

It gives me the sweet scent
Of new mown hay
And the blackbirds song
In May.

Everything's so still.

Looked at through a cobweb
on a fresh September dawn
bedecked with shining dewdrops
on the rose bush on the lawn,
while below me in the valley
a swathe of thick white mist
snakes along the river
waiting to be kissed
by the first long rays
of the sun's embrace
peeping o'er the hill.

Everything's so still.

Yesterday's sky
grey,overcast,
hanging heavy
humid
threatening deluge
all gone today.
Change
to hot, clear blue
cloudless
sunshine
promising Summer.

There's leaves waiting to be gathered pooled by the trunk
while others remain restless on limbs seeking one strong gale to unite with the fallen and have done with the inevitable.
The rake is eager to prove its worth peeking out from the shed.
I'm in no rush while enjoying the lush crimson and amber and brown watching as one by one they topple down.

The tree's now fleshed out
with leaves
shushing the wind's passion,
                                      'be with me'
moaning sighs to its lover
sway and stretch of torso and limbs
heart pulses
vibrating root deep
                                         'always'

A single rose danced stiffly
in the cold December dawn
her petals turned
like blood red lips
to greet the Winter sun.

Her sisters had danced
before her there
but they knew better times
hot blue skies and leafy trees
the intimate kiss of honey bees
in a world that sang
and chirped and hummed with life.

But even though the sun is weak
and all around is in retreat
the wind blows cold
and days are short
still
she holds her head with pride
to take one final curtain call.

First frost
Riming the landscape
A white dawn
Announced by the crow's harsh call
The waning moon hanging
In a cloudless sky
As the rising sun's rays
Twinkle on the frosted fields.