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God Blessed Jul 1
Who's heard me has a miracle heard:
God makes this ******* speak The Word.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs

When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens

Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn

Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Chesterton, in ancient Huntingdonshire (only those who know not God claim that Hunts is but a division of Cambridgeshire), is the home of my de Beauville / Beauville / Beville / Bevil ancestors.  

St. Michael’s Church was built ca. 1295 and contains several memorials to the Bevilles and the tomb of William Beville, +1487.  I do not know if there was ever any bit of land designated as “Saint Michael’s Fields”; I wrote that in for the sake of an autumn fair.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2016
Harvest Time in the Fens

St. Michael’s Church, Chesterton

A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs,

When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue,
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens,
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens.

Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn,
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn.

Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And now comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all.
LBG Jun 2014
Donde está el hombre que nunca fue niño, el que nació sin la ayuda de llantos, con la educación ya cosechada y con los pies que caminan hacia atrás de donde el vino la luz.

Los años me han cambian preciosos fragmentos de la cara, con la suavidez y delicadez de un hoja en el agua.

Mano que toca la blancura de camas.

Ojos echos de lluvias de luz, un sol que me llama, mas cerca, yo siempre con el pero lejos, parado en mi tierra con brazos estrechos un arbol de ayer.
Niñez

— The End —