The oak and rowan slumber still Reposing in their frosted bed; Holding off the shivered chill Dormant, docile, all but dead. Skeletons drab against the cloud Leafless limbs up-reaching high; Clothed in dew, a frozen shroud, Below them hidden secrets lie.
On the ground the snowdrops burst Early risers of the year Contending to be blooming first A fleetly winter's end is near. Premature, the sunlight's rays, Icy stalactites eroding, Tumbling down a spectral haze With leafy newborn buds exploding. ...
He lives within his Toytown house And stays, contented, there; Happy, silent as a mouse Dozed in his tortile chair. Ready and alert is he, Uncertain what's in store, Thinking next who it may be Comes knocking at his door.
Will someone call to visit soon? Will someone come to play? Will someone tease and hum a tune Upon this very day? All alone he'll sit and mope The smile washed from his face; Sadly, tearful in the hope Some antic should take place.
On a bright and sunny morning in the early January of 1994 I stood in the peaceful tranquillity of Janusz Korczak Square within the walls of Yad Vashem, Israel's famous monument to the victims of the Holocaust, which is perfectly sited near the Jerusalem Forest on the western slope of Mount Herzl (Mount of Remembrance), Jerusalem. I gazed in awe there at a large sculptured statue portraying a bearded man embracing a dozen small children as if he was protecting them from something or someone wicked. †I was, in fact, looking at a fine statue standing approximately twice life size and...
Just as the year is ending (As winter snows the leaves) The autumn glow pretending ~ The winter chill deceives. As squirrels start defending Their caches underground, December's shiver pending, And swallows southward bound.
The cool of day is blending (As it frosts the forest floor) Into the sunset tending To be sooner than before. The boughs of treetops bending As gales race through their form Spiralling and wending Propelled by winter's storm.
She speaks of skirts and dresses And outings by the sea; She speaks of curls and tresses And ribbons flowing free. She speaks of her successes And all that she could be; She speaks of nonthelesses But never speaks of me.
She looks at morning's start of day And colours in the sky. She sees the flowers by the way And graceful birds that fly. She watches children gay at play, Amid the hue and cry; She looks at breezy trees that sway But never looks at I.
There's Nothing In The Night Like The Sound Of The Wind
When all the land is in repose There is a noise, as nightfall shows, A noise to stir the sinews of your mind. † And so, who hear it at its best, † (Who know its sound, as others rest) † May thank the Lord, he made it for mankind. † †† She hums and blows her gentle breezes, † Comes and goes just as she pleases, † Purrs pastoral verses as her theme; † And when the twilight tones the air, † Then, striking strains are ever there † For one an' all who worship her esteem. † † † Her voice caresses mighty trees, † ...
The night was red as from my bed I tumbled to the sky. The breeze was blue as I heard you Around the garden fly. The day was black as I stepped back And felt a gum tree grow. The rain dripped dry as only I Would see a rooster crow.
I found my hat and stroked my cat And led my sows to market. I saw you say my snout was grey So steered my car to park it. I had to flee to Southend Sea To drop off in the sands. I went to view the voice of you, I walked there on my hands.