"bungalow" poems - Hello Poetry

I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees. The empty stream ran quietly dry With grass cuttings piling high. If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight. So on tip-toe, with sandels bent Up high I reached to take The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette In a theatre made by chance. Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps. My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles. Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack. Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum. And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float. Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped Hedge. The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste. Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn Could see down across the land To the sea and sand. Of all the beauties that I've known Nothing beats this Island home. Love Mary x My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight. It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’. Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises. The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land. Beyond the real world. In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.

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Jun 23, 2018

Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC

mary-gay-kearns

‘NOPO@HEPO’.My Grandfather’s Garden: Innislandia, The imaginary world of my grandfather.

I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees. The empty stream ran quietly dry With grass cuttings piling high. If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight. So on tip-toe, with sandels bent Up high I reached to take The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette In a theatre made by chance. Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps. My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles. Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack. Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum. And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float. Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped Hedge. The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste. Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn Could see down across the land To the sea and sand. Of all the beauties that I've known Nothing beats this Island home. Love Mary x My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight. It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’. Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises. The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land. Beyond the real world. In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.