The crying sky with heavy afternoon crystal
drops of heartache tickling
sweetgrass mingled with newfound sunshine
With piedmont wine forming perfect pools ,
ushering streams to awaiting seas
A place to bathe for romantics like me
A home for springtide antics ,
for polka dot bullfrogs , singing daisies ,
red grass blankets and apple tree sergeants
Windemere spiderlings , crooning wood larks ,
hereford dancers crossing purple clover parks* ..

It,s  a  lovely  crisp  early  spring  morning.
After  a  sharp  frost.
Clear  blue  sky  has  far
as  the  eye  can  see.
Very  quiet, no  wind  at  all.
The  snow  capped  mountains
stand  proudly  on  the  horizon.
A  few  holiday  makers  arriving.
For  a  brand  new  season.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2017.

Tunneling into Sunday with a
gift of self
I'm the number twelve on the clock
The copied , most followed bird in the flock
A dominate loblolly
The general of a fictitious army
I'm the sunny side of the yard
A one eyed jack wild card
Let my contemporaries be the paddle ,
for today I am their handle*....

I love the sounds of seagulls and I know why
It makes me think of special days gone by
Early morning walking thru the dunes
Listening to them ‘singing’ all their tunes

Racing the surf, jumping waves and building castles
With those gulls flying low with all their chatters
They glide by with eagle eyes and notice all
Just in case a wee morsel of food might fall

The countless hours we lay upon the beach
Listening to every little screech
They came and looked at us and then
Decided they were not into our Zen

And when the ocean winds begin to blow
And gusts of air move in with every flow
These creatures catch the air and soar along
And keep us all alerted with their song

And now I close my eyes and take a breath
And feel the sea air in my chest
I hear the rise and fall of seagull sounds
When they frolic in the air of coastal grounds

©By Jane Jan 16, 2011