SPRING – a poem

At  present I am preoccupied with visiting grandchildren and so I dug up this poem, written in the early 1970s when I lived in London, and edited now in 2019. Grandchildren can’t relate to this time before even thier parents were born, the senitments are universal so I hope that some of my readers may enjoy it.

I am a child of the night,
City born and thrust
Into the darkness,
Of faceless urban millions,
Sharing stereotyped desires,
And mass-media emotions,
Predicted and predictable. 

But, today I was free.
For today I saw the sun shine,
A warm spring sun,
It dried the ground,
It nuzzled nature to action,
Even as I was excited, delighted,
My heart uplifted by the globe.

Then joyful, I sang,
Forgetting the gray city,
Forgetting the tubes and fumes,
Forgetting humanity, my heritage,
And like the March hare,
Madly exulted in the sun,
My heart worshipped a pagan God.

Forever Autumn – a poem.

Recently some friends invited us to a “forever autumn” themed evening. I contributed this light hearted poem.

I, autumn, distain my sisters, three
Not one of you as good as me!
I point at my bountiful harvest fare
Look what I produce to share
Fields waving with golden grain,
Riches are my echoed refrain
Orchards full of fruited trees,
Honeycombs gifted by the bees.
Don’t even consider the rest
Forever autumn, I’m the best.

Now winter you banish green,
Perhaps as pretty as a dream
You substitute snow and ice,
But how can they call you nice?
Nothing to eat, ground as stone,
Fast becoming skin and bone
Without my bounty all would cry.
Foodless, nothing to do, but die.
Don’t even consider the rest
Forever autumn, I’m the best.

Spring you come far too late
Life awakes to procreate
Promises to challenge my stored fare,
Blossoms and green shoots everywhere.
Your promise nascent new life
Foodless this only means strife
Your bounty a future lure
The living need so much more.
Don’t even consider the rest
Forever autumn, I’m the best.

Summer with your heat and sun
You smother with frolicking fun
Throughout each dreamy day
Wash away cares you say,
Field and groves growing well
These are lies that you tell
It’s my harvest; that you know
When all you do is help it grow.
Don’t even consider the rest
Forever autumn, I’m the best.

© Copyright, October 2013, Jane Stansfeld