"sorrel" poems
That's Mugwort
and that's Red Sorrel
and that over there
is Red Campion
Jane said
we were walking
on the Downs
the sky
summery warm
almost cloudless
cattle mooed nearby
a flock of birds
flew over
our heads
her hand held mine
skin on skin
warm
soft
I sensed an appley scent
about her
we had kissed
the day before
and it had been
other worldly
and now
I wanted to kiss again
but didn't want
to push forward
but wait to see
what happened
and that
she said
is White Deadnettle
smiling at me
you know
the countryside well
I said
well you Londoners
know nothing of it
but at least
you want to learn
she said
I liked the flowery dress
she was wearing
red and yellow
with a yellow sash
tied about her
and the white
ankle socks
and black shoes
(slightly muddy)
I observed her carefully
wanting to know
more of her
of nature
of us
and that bird back there
was a pheasant
she said
we paused
in the corn field
and looked back
up towards the Downs
and she turned to me
and kissed me
and held me close
and I felt almost
absorbed into her body
and wanted
to feel more and more
and she parted
and said
I'm no expert
on kissing
was that all right?
not sure
I'll need to try again
I said smiling
and she took my hand
and squeezed it
and kissed me again
and the cattle
mooed louder
and a bird
flew overhead spying
before it took off
in the sky high flying.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
The dayseye hugging the earth
in August, ha! Spring is
gone down in purple,
weeds stand high in the corn,
the rainbeaten furrow
is clotted with sorrel
and crabgrass, the
branch is black under
the heavy mass of the leaves—
The sun is upon a
slender green stem
ribbed lengthwise.
He lies on his back—
it is a woman also—
he regards his former
majesty and
round the yellow center,
split and creviced and done into
minute flowerheads, he sends out
his twenty rays— a little
and the wind is among them
to grow cool there!
One turns the thing over
in his hand and looks
at it from the rear: brownedged,
green and pointed scales
armor his yellow.
But turn and turn,
the crisp petals remain
brief, translucent, greenfastened,
barely touching at the edges:
blades of limpid seashell.
5.9k
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues.
Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life's razzle dazzle.
Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor-a giggler, God knows, a giggler-and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square.
The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.
3.9k
baby blue stroller
fire engine red wagon
chrome oxide green bike
yellow convertible
azurite blue van
sorrel colored wheelchair
bronze casket
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
White with daisies and red with sorrel
And empty, empty under the sky!—
Life is a quest and love a quarrel—
Here is a place for me to lie.
Daisies spring from ****** seeds,
And this red fire that here I see
Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
Cursed by farmers thriftily.
But here, unhated for an hour,
The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
The daisy stands, a ******* flower,
Like flowers that bear an honest name.
And here a while, where no wind brings
The baying of a pack athirst,
May sleep the sleep of blessed things,
The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
3.6k
I lie strategically in place
Innocent framework fused
With royal carapace
Frail and allknowing fingers clenched and intertwined,
Mimicking the honest silver circuit in the night sky
As candid as the shore
Each slumbered and delicate breath
Vitally delivered from those sublime lips
Both damp and potent
I get a candied wind of
An accidental consolation
To my crippling worry
Sorrowful, I am, my love
For eavesdropping, but
My reveries are your keepsakes
And I,
Watching you sleep, carefully
In A placid coma, caging waves of covenants
And exhaling tokens of a life once dreamt of
I envisage the unvarnished truth,
your marrow as my sustentation,
Your veins, My lifeline
Where each filament of platinum and sorrel remain entangled and sprawled in forever, impeccably
And how drawn out and vexing
My intervals of lingering for you
Have been
And then you leak a sigh in a dream
And exhale a veil of whispers
Directly to my ribcage
And I simper, cradling you tighter
So you can breathe my craving,
My contented tribute
To my one veritable sentiment.
And I seal it all in the midst,
Of a drifted and slumbered and deathless
Kiss.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Life is displayed in the color green,
Stalks of corn, a field of beans.
The oak tree's leaves, the roses stem,
The fresh mown hay, the forest glen.
Life is displayed in the color yellow,
A daffodil or lemon Jell-o.
The morning sun, a buttercup's wings,
A smiley face, a topaz ring.
Life is displayed in the color brown,
The deep rich soil at the edge of town.
A chocolate chip, a sorrel foal,
Steaming cocoa, a fresh baked roll.
Life is displayed in the color blue,
Neptune's ocean, and berries too.
A mountain stream, the desert skies,
But favorite to me are my little girl's eyes.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:18 PM UTC
In my dream,
I was accosted by sugar ants
in the sandbox,
near the honeysuckle
and curled parsley
behind the house.
I was trying to eat the little ants
but was called in
for cheese and baloney.
When I came in,
hopping in worn-out slippers,
the glass door slid into the kitchen
with plasterboard walls
and beige ceramic tile.
There was a black spider
perched on the ceiling
with bright yellow knees.
Those years ago
I drew with sidewalk chalk,
made myself mazes
on the sloping driveway
too steep for basketball.
Cicadas dragged in heat
on waves, droning.
One landed on me -
a yell caught in my throat -
but I made myself look at it
and be still, shaking.
Back then I had an old cape
& a homemade bow-and-arrow.
I’d sally forth
into the backyard, barefoot,
jumping over prickly mulch,
brushing my shins
against clouds of low love-in-a-mist
with its threaded leaves
& shy blue-white flowers.
Sometimes my sister
was back there too, tanning,
or Mom carving
little men out of cherry,
but more often I was all alone
in that wilderness
in moccasins & living
off wood sorrel,
the brighter clover, lemony.
Or in rain
I listened to my brother
play piano if he was home,
maybe Bags and Trane,
and I’d dance between shadows,
the underworld of the patches
of carpet in the light.
Later - a little older -
I recognized that home
is more a time than a place,
and understood I would miss it
years before it was gone
so around nine years old
I went through every foot
of that high-ceilinged house,
that weedy backyard,
and made a solemn farewell
to everything in advance
trying hard to be ready
long before the time came to leave.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
Moonlight touches indigo,
As I create you once again in
This space, a swathe of cool air
Somewhere between night's breath
And the golden light of dawn...
Naivety wanders through rush-light,
A whisper waiting on a wilderness edge,
A green-eyed moon
Burning hours, like thin fire,
Curves my flesh...yet I am paler than sorrel...
An esoteric beauty, seducing immortal;
A litany of rose colour jewels
Surging, softly spreading
Like feathers, trailing your skin
Breaching the passage of hunger...
I lay upon fevered enchantment
Spilled in murmurs, wrapped and trembling
In the worship of your hands,
Tongue and lips
Whispering passion alive
Melting your flesh to quiver...
I taste the wild honey, captured by
Lips that ache with silent cries,
The sleepless dust, a crystalline prism,
Suspended upon dark velvet
Following the ghost of US.......
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 5:28 AM UTC
one more for Pradip...
"Poems...are never short or long, they're only more. Thanks Nat for ever filling the less."
firing up the poem kiln,
this intriguing provocation
insistent of deserved consideration,
after all,
it is thy stories that these days inspire,
my own stories are relentless
grey, old, cold, and to my eyes,
coded repetitious...
neither a chaster or a chastiser,
(You could look it up!)
confessing readily to sinning against humanity
by ecrivezing poems of length considerable,
the Mexicano from Indiano
releases a shotgun blast
to all those whose attention spans last,
to ten words or a single stanza...no more...
but this not the matter of import,
no, no, it is the
more and the less
that makes poetry the best,
no matter the length or the heft...
in each of us
there is a more and a less,
in cycles individual that are not bound to
tides, weather, or any effect natural,
but product of our own amber waves
of chemical imbalances and mental auras...
all my days have I rode waves of
well hid hills of mania *** depression,
contented moments surrounded and cosseted
by wails of worry, sorrel colored sorrows,
making the scientists amazed at the correlation
of the macro and the mini,
the precision of my indecision...
in sixty seconds, in sixty days, in sixty years,
have I battered and battled the disequilibrium
of more and less,
disallowing a pilloried intervention,
will likely do so until
that day when my pen
has bled its last...
this theme haunts,
for but a day ago,
a bus poem was blurted out,
that concluded thusly:
***to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry***
here I am stunned that Pradip
with but a handful of seeds,
exactly isolates the genetic implanted notion
that I struggle to define,
knowing only that my poetry fills my less,
when the all the rest is just
another fine mess
we fill the less with our wit,
we top off our souls with writs,
we are more for having scribed,
one read or ten thousand,
it mater matters knot!
look upon the pages endlessly bearing
the ephemeral heavy-handed weight full of well crafted words,
the good, the plenty,
the sad, the sorry,
the trite and cranky,
those misted musty,
the light and the careful,
the bad and merely awful,
even the drip of torrential love stories gone dry
what matters not
any of this over sighted analytics,
each and all and everyone
a success,
for each poem makes someone's less lessened,
and someone's more, more,
and by this
ever filling the less...
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
This describes all of the cottage industry angels that men produce they are angels for profit
Pure angels Zechariah 1:8 “I saw by night and behold a man riding on a red horse and it stood
Among the myrtle trees in the hallow and behind him were horses red, sorrel, and white then I
Said my lord what are these so the angel who talked with me said to me I will show you what
They are” what they are is the most pleasurable and pure knowing of angels they are in God’s
Word doing the work of God we don’t discredit angels in books but here you can have a sigh of
Relief knowing assuredly their wings is not noise filled from rust or any manner of impurity
Join them in complete utter trust they haven’t been set before you for any ulterior motive of
Anyone the song blessed assurance doesn’t come from this but how glorious here the door is
Wide open come in and dwell among sacred doings in the earth feel alone weak sad come to
This clearing that appears profound all powerful truly you can mount up on angel wings soar
The True dimensions of the soul unbound in delirious thrilled freedom ride on thermals created
By visitors who call heaven home you will be touched by reality unknown to human thought
Truly the rush of angel’s will surround you live in a beleaguered world of fallen angels that only
Seek our hurt but in this rarified place where heavenly glory is readily displayed you will know
Peace comfort and power adrift you are bestowed with garlands now temporarily but one day
It will be replaced with a golden sacred crown on your head His gleaming light will shoot out in
All directions accompanied by your joyous laughter these are truths and thoughts that will
Enrobe you enthrall you the sweetest tremble the softest tenderness will beguile you where
You will abide among true friends and protectors that serve God honorable just a few true
Words that will truly uplift you what is being described is your birthright your treasure without
Measure it’s not written in stone but in Holy love that consumes heaven’s thoughts you are the
Central most desirable discussion that heaven ever has this is just one mention of that truth
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
It was snowing too insistently,
snowflakes almost as big as the eye,
over nostrils, over half-open lips,
over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,
exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.
I had the profile of a porcelain statue
like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.
After a while I started to breathe hardly,
choking first while crying, then while sighing
and finally while hiccuping.
Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,
or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.
How could he possibly hide in my blood then
when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,
when I had sipped the milk foam my whole childhood
without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?
How could that man travel between my heart’s mill stones
without being ground down completely?
Now only tears are sticking over nostrils, over half-open eyelids
like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.
Not a single barrier, not a single one way sign,
not a single red traffic light
or at least a church with holy relics.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
That’s Speedwell
and that’s Red Sorrel
Jane said
pointing out
the wildflowers
as you both walked
down the lane
that led to the empty cottage
with apples trees
in the garden
and gooseberry bushes
in fruit by hedges
They all look the same to me
you said
Just flowers growing
she shook her head
and smiled and said
You townies
do you know nothing
of nature’s beauty?
I’m looking at beauty now
you replied
and as you both walked on
down the lane
she in her summery dress
and you in your
open neck shirt
and faded jeans
you felt the morning sun
touching your head
like a fond mother
and the smell of flowers
and sound of birds
and she said
after a minute
or so of silence
Father says beauty
is only skin deep
real beauty lies
in a person’s soul
if that soul is not blemished
by sin that is
and you looked at her
hand by her side
swinging as she walked
and the fingers curled
as if she held
something invisible
yet ready to throw
and you took in
her white ankle socks
above her brown sandals
and the calves of her legs
and her thighs
just showing
as the dress moved
and you breathed in deep
like one immersed
in water about to drown
of love or the feeling of such
and you said
I guess he’s right
but I love the beauty
of skin pretty much
and she laughed
and her laughter
shooed off birds
from the tree tops around
who probably never heard
such a beautiful sound.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
Withered Old Man,with a Gnarled Old Stick
Seeks the Old Root Man, Mandrake for to Take
Sorrel and Wolfs Bane, Night Shade and Jace
He Scours the Woods for Potions to Make
His hunts through the caves, for Crystals so Clear
Lapis lazuli Azure Stone, Dug from Earth So Rare
Bones of Hart strung with Sinew and Nuggets of Copper
Bones Carved with Ancient Signs and Wizardry
Wand of Willow, Feather of Owl,
In Darkest Night with Hooded Cowl
Arcane Language made to Howl
Calling Down the Soul, of the ******
With Enchantment the Soul is Sent
On Evil Missions So Hellbent
To Wither the crops and curse the Fowl
Of those in Hatred flesh embowled
T'is heard he moves as a Dark Shadow
Lending Fear to weakened Brow
A Pox upon your beating Heart
A knot within your Bowels
But many among the Land
See an old man with a Withered hand
Who hunts the woods and hills
Finding things to heal your Ills.....JMF 11/26/14
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Brides of whitest, delicate lace,
Gowns immaculate, as snow their face
Softest pink, a blush to embrace,
Rose, as rising sun to race
Sheets of white, 'candescent as moonlight,
Waves of coral, leaves and floral,
Rows of candle, as calcic stalagmite,
Mauves 'n violet as wild wood sorrel.
So yon maidens of sweetest spring
Herald the Queen Summer's oncoming
Her nectarous drupe and fruit offspring
The bountiful boon she will bring.
Behold the language of your Beloved
Speaks in tongues of secrets vivid
Of kindness, giving, eternally sipid
Of warmth and fire, of ardour vivid
So when next you spy the verdant maidens
Bedecked finery, blossoms laden,
Whispering, bowing, to one cadence,
Know you see the One true Haven.
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 6:27 AM UTC
I stopped off at the bank to say
'how are you' to the folks who try
their hand at the day care of my
dollars and the quarters of my pay
I pushed back on a tall gray day,
the clouds swirl by in the lead gray sky
and I fly over the dry sand ox bow
that runs and twists in a necklace below
next, by a purring Toyota, its light
glowing blank at a barn wall looking glass
Unclip and the gate still open in hind sight,
and I am through onto the grass
no paint, no sorrel no grizzled grey hinnie,
I walk through the trees tracking the sandy scuff
out and up and across the overlook bluff.
I hoot n call but never a whinny
There's a house there with a good wire fence
The trail turns east over the rough brush heath
and on and on and across to a fence,
worn neatly down to a barbed wire wreath
and across more brush with a fresh hoof print
til the track grows faint but never a hint.
And I stoop where nobody sees me in repose
thankful a handkerchief wipes more than noses,
So back in a sweaty shirt
to the tree line, and there are the horses
fresh hoof tracks on the truck
where donkey and goat flirt.
bowls of grain and sweet feed to make amend,
a handful of wafers to lighten the offering
And I brush off what the fly spray left me
of dead on the back of my old friend
And I comb out his handsome mane,
and pull out his short gold tail
and throw up the heavy brown saddle
and think again of my good fortune
the pretty leather saddle
This time though he stop
and consider his options,
press on through the scary wind break
where turkeys are known to run in conniptions
giving the evil eye to the pile of hay netting
the field gate that groans in the wind.
landlord's engine spinning quietly
the lights burning where nobody looks
Just a word or two, and we are galloping back,
easier to urge when returning to the friendly herd,
And off to the west where the house that's for sale is
and past the dead mans duck pond,
home is where the lunch is,
and another perfect holiday.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
The bearded man in the forager’s cap rode in on little sorrel that night.
Lee had called a council of war to game plan for the coming fight.
The Northern aggressors were on the move but they might be vulnerable on their right.
It was a bold audacious plan to divide in the face of the foe.
The Calvary screen was key to the scheme to find where best to strike the blow.
The battle would be called Lee’s masterpiece; Hooker’s men broke and they fled.
but the battle would also be Jackson’s last; in just a few days he’d be dead..
In the dark of May second, men rode the plank road, Jackson rode at their head
Did they ignore the Sentry’s challenge? Or did the sentry mishear what they said?
They took Jackson arm, the saw-blade did sing, but alas it was to no avail
He crossed over the river to rest neath the shade of the trees in the hero’s vale
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
The bridge is still bouncy
The water calm and clear
Horses’ hoofprints churned the grass
Bright yellow star-shaped Celandine
Bluebells and Wood Sorrel
Shoals of fish
Delighting people
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
always a reflection
a sorrel mare with one white sock
a stock color to produce
whatever you would want
this is where i have been
eternity trapped in this..... mask?
i wear no mask!
i was not burned in acid, or something.....
only stuck being the kind of girl
you would take home to Mom
after a week of fun
my always open arms
embracing the human flaw
the Greek hero who drowned
reaching for himself.....
.....me......
it's not conceit
anyone who has looked has seen
a reflection of themselves
their wants
their dreams
not a carbon copy
only this reflection
imperfectly perfectly
what every man wants
is it any wonder
i always wanted to be a Grulla instead.........
(JL)
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
Wow!
Today Taushe,
taught my tongue to taste
Pumpkin made with soup,
in the time of cooking
and sipping.
You know pumpkin,
so if no,
try and say yes.
Get spinach leaves,
cut the leaves cleanly
Mix the oil in the ***
the water is so vital
This is a matter of Hausa culture,
their food, environment, and taste
The soup is taushe
delicious, nutritious,
improves health,
and restores health,
because of its ingredients
of pumpkin,
spinach, sorrel leaf,
peppers, tomatoes and onions,
garlic, ginger, and salt
White-seed melon, seasoning
The Taushe soup,
makes everyone happy,
while having fun
Older ages drink
Young people are drinking,
especially school children,
because it boosts sight,
to read vowels and consonants,
that are arranged in order of series
A series of alphabets,
that make poetry
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 5:59 AM UTC
I want a
companion, too
someone to
consume me with
his fire
over
stories, flutes of
port
someone who can
read his
bible without
believing what he
sees
and likes the sound
the thunder
makes when
it drapes over
the trees
I want a
companion, too
to share this
sorrel time
to think my eyes
are portals
& to be my
paradigm.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
An Afternoon LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER Walk
Along Beer Can Road and County Dump Extension
Dewberries LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER sassafras seedlings LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER Virginia creeper LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER pine cones LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER crumbling oak leaves from last summer LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER winds sighing in the pine tops LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER a little plum tree LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER Canada goldenrod LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER poplar LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER swamp oak LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER mourning doves LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER slanting evening sunlight LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER Chickasaw plum LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER nightshade LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER red spider lilies LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER a skink bluebonnets LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER clouds in the west LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER spiderwort LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER a long eared rabbit loping across the road LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER sorrel LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER a feather from a bluebird LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER waving field grasses LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER the neighbor’s cows browsing in peace LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER a crane flying up from a pond LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER crows fussing at me from the woods LITE A FINE PILSNER BEER…
Apr 7, 2024
Apr 7, 2024 at 9:27 PM UTC
The bridge is still bouncy
The water calm and clear
Horses’ hoofprints churned the grass
Bright yellow star-shaped Cellandine
Bluebells and wood sorrel
Shoals of fish
Delighting people
Maggie Sorbie
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:16 AM UTC
Clovers fall
Down
To the ground
Clubs
Over diamonds
Four leaf crowns
Have you a heart
What have you found
Green was all over
And lucky left town
All of the clovers fell
Onto the deck of cards
Upside down
Turning over
Hedron
The smell of vervain
And mixing sober
Ginger under a *****
Dug out
Clovers fall.
down
A circadian rhythm
With the ground
Such a mysterious milieu
Nascent in the soils
Flinging about
Clubs thrown around
The dealer crowds the house
Clovers fell down
Into a theasarus
Of sound
Have you a heart
What have you found
Green was all over
And lucky left town
Wood sorrel
Revelations
A tousle world
Unbound
Make yourself a bed
In the clovers fallen down
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC