Natures Lace

All through the night she works, tireless never ceasing
To spin her silken threads
The perfect creation of natures Lace
A silken shimmering web
No hand of man could ever produce such a perfect work of art
With computers and modern technology he wouldn't know where to start
A silken thread floating on air is gathered and put in its place
All this in darkness without pattern or plan
She creates natures beautiful Lace
Each silken strand, stronger than steel
Stronger than anything man can produce
All this from one spider spinning her web
A product of natural juice
With the coming of dawn and a new rising sun
A sight that is sure to amaze
Every tree, every bush, every gatepost
Draped in a gown of gossamer lace

I once wrote about the chrystal stream
Where poets wrote and young lovers dreamed
Of the beautiful years to come
But the chrystal stream became a fetid place
Of sewage and industrial waste
And so the poets no longer wrote
And young lovers no longer dreamed
Of beautiful years to come
But now I sit beside a chrystal bay
The sun forming diamonds on rippling waves
Bird song sounding in my ears
Peace washing away years of stress and fear
This now is the place where poets write
Now the place where young lovers can dream
Of beautiful years to come
Tranquil here is the early morn
With the rising sun reborn
This now the place to sit and think
Take up the pen make bold the ink
But I'll never forget that chrystal stream
Where poets once wrote and young lovers once dreamed
Of the beautiful years to come

Memories long past. Dreams yet to be fulfilled

(The original chrystal stream poem)

No More The Chrystal Stream

We search once more for the chrystal stream
Where poets once wrote and young lovers once dreamed
Of the beautiful years to come

But no more now is the chrystal stream
Where poets wrote and lovers dreamed
Of beautiful years to come

The chrystal stream now a fetid place
Of sewage and industrial waste
The hedgerows long ripped out and gone
Once green fields now barren ground
What legacy do we leave for our unborn sons
Now the beautiful years have gone

But we poets still can sit and dream
And write of things that might have been
In our minds we still see the chrystal stream
And dream of the beautiful years to come