Welcome to my poem page. Why do some of us write poems? It is a strange impulse and less that 2% of us do it, why? Who knows but every now and again I get this urge to write poetry and have an extensive collection built up since I was a child. Do I need therapy? Probably...

This poem is the hardest I have ever written and my most satisfying, from start to finish it took over a year.

for a lost friend

TINY ACORNS

 I hear the birdsong as autumn leaves lay like a chestnut sea,

 And gaze with saddened eyes while gentle rain entrances me.

So swift the seasons run this year, so soon the swallows fly,

While church bells toll to summon all for a friend has passed us by.

Oh how the tears do swell with the choir in harmony,

Where angels dwell in every note and where my friend should be.

I dare not glance at others eyes should I feel their pain in me,

This death has shaken all our souls with cold reality.

We stout men of England strong, that grew from soil so rich,

That beat the anvils from our past and learnt their rhythmic pitch,

We walked the path of duty, to earn our right to stay,

But beneath the churchyard yew is where we grudging lay.

What happened to those sunny days and our endless schemes,

When we were tiny acorns amongst a field of dreams.

Wide eyed we raced through life, with our hearts brimming full,

Yet the final flag is a shroud of silk, so harsh and miserable.

Were I to take your hand my friend, were I to grasp it hard,

I`d gladly share half my days though it would mark my card,

Then through the lofty corridors where silent whispers fly,

We`d shout our voices hoarse my friend and laugh until we die.
 

Skylark Country