..... now we are heading towards Spring, Winter has really begun; with sunny blue skies and  frosted grass and seed heads.  These photos were taken down in 6 Acre Meadow....

 

 

 

Seed heads of Giant Burdock

Teazle Seed heads

Oak Leaves with the frosted stems
of Rosebay Willow Herb
 

Happy New Year to Everyone ....

..... Sadly, no snow for us this Christmas., or New Year!  
I have a sledge for the grandchildren, which has not been in use for at least two years. We are promised a cold snap in February, so here's hoping,and now for a snowy poem...........

Boxing Day – Nonsuch Park

We conjured up the long lost sounds
Of Henry hunting here with hounds,
Across the oak-edged rolling fields
Once ranged by stag and gentle hind

Gone are the herds of roaming deer,

The flying manes and glittering eye.

No hunting horns blow sharp and clear,

Yet still we love to walk through here.

Today the ice gleams on the trees,

The fields flow silver like the sea,

And larches softly drape their boughs

With lace of frosted filigree.


Above the dense, dark wooded hills,
The pale moon lies in turquoise sky.
Caught in time we stare, quite still
                            
                                  at parakeets with rosy bills.
 

Sue Burley

 

Might this be God…?

Could this be God then,

          when the rugged old oak

splashes rain on my head?

Or when the brisk wind

            snatches at my hair

and lifts the load from my back?

Might this be God then

            when the lime tree scatters
the earth with luminous yellow hearts?

 

Or when the scarlet rose hips

            glossy with dew, spread
the power of peace within me?

 

Could this truly be God then

          when wind, leaves, earth and rain

create in me this happiness?


©Sue Burley

2015

At St. John's Church, here at home, Remembrance Day is kept on the nearest Sunday, (this year, the 8th November.)  After the service, prayers are said at the war memorial for the fallen of all nations throughout the world.
This is also the same day as the Act of Remembrance which takes place at The Cenotaph, Whitehall in Central London.
Of course, the official day is 11th November every year....

Here is my own poem in tribute ...............

Remembrance Day

A soft grey day                                                     

on the cusp of winter chill.                                              

Fallen leaves, fragments underfoot -                                

crushed frail wings of Speckled Wood;                  

and shy moorhens dipping red shields

backpedal against the charging stream.                            

The glowing bonfire’s heaving heart

aims smoking tracers to the ashen sky.

Bitter drops of hawthorne’s vivid blood

flood the hedgerows; a heron waits -                     

and by the church scarlet poppies                                   

lie entrenched with pale crosses.                                     

From Hyde Park cannon boom

                                 fracturing the still air.
 

© Sue Burley

 Published in 'Reach Poetry',
November, 2015; issue 105

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                'The Fens', 6 Acre Meadow,

                                                                               near St John the Baptist, Old Malden

 

... we are off to Swanage, Dorset on Saturday, and as I haven't  managed to write anything new, here are a couple of my photos of  'Woody Nightshade', which kindly grows over my trellis by the potting bench...

 

This is a beautiful  climber, but beware, the berries are poisonous, and can cause sickness!!

...  We have recently been blessed by a second grandson, a welcome addition to our family.  He is now six weeks old and the first child for my son and his wife. 

...  It made me think of the poem I wrote when our first granchild was born.  She is now 10 years old! How time flies ..........

Hungry Baby

         (for Rose)

I pick the baby

from her mother’s arms,

her peachy cheek

colliding with mine.

Milk rimmed, her puckered mouth

still fiercely sucks

rooted to my neck.

Slate grey eyes open

in puzzlement; fists worry.

Her head bumps my shoulder

like soft fruit falling

to earth, face crumpling

in berry-red rage.

© Sue Burley

2004
Revised 2010

 

The Ribwort Plantain

 

(Nonsuch Park, Summer 2015)

Unassuming, most lowly of plants

edged out by the dazzle of buttercups,

the startling white of campion.

A survivor, not showy but strong,

a  stayer pushing up drab flowers        

from a rosette of speared leaves.

Accordingly, drives down tough roots,    

colonising field margins, hemming

path edges, mingling in meadows.

So, here it is - rashly consorting

with silken poppies, showy orchids,

the dancing grasses, red clover -
 

but not to be outdone, unwraps
an ethereal halo, a fragile wreath
of creamy anthers  -  its surprise package.


Sue Burley
2015