Winter Cold

As clouds roll o’er hills

Autumnal cool

Turns to

Winter cold

Grey blue skies

Turn grey black

Soon the rains will come

And the snow will fall

Children will play and

Parents will be dismayed

And the poet will be content to write

For winter is upon us

 

Copyright © JRFC From October 2018

Winter’s Grace

This one is kind of a revision or maybe it’s better described as a reinterpretation of a piece that I wrote last year.

I hope you like.

Winters Grace

Look ahead

Through snow-covered trees

Wrapped warm

Dance under crystal white branches

Winters grace

Cooling breeze soothes the soul

Float free

In currents of air, surfing with snowflakes

On high

Releasing unheavenly thoughts; free the mind

Breathe deep

The head clears from life’s stress

Be cleansed

 

Here’s a link to my previous version if you’d like to see it, cheers!

Copyright © JRFC November 2019
Image from Pixabay

  

Frost’s Breath

O’er rambling valleys and rolling hills

Frosty breath clings to grass tips

As globules of cold dew drops

Glistening like white diamonds

In the bright sunshine

 

Slowly drawing in the warmth

Of the growing diurnal rhythms

They shy away to reveal

Pastures of emerald green

On this, a beautiful Autumn Day

 

Copyright © JRFC November 2019
Image from Pixabay

My Special Guest tonight is…

Robert Louis Stevenson and Autumn Fires

It’s autumn, no it’s not; oh yes it is and from the weather I have outside my window it’s well and truly autumn. Time to turn up the heating, snuggle on whatever piece of furniture you like best with who or what you like best and get comfy.

Here’s a little rhyme that, I think, sets the mood nicely for this time of year and will warm the cockles of your heart.

For those that don’t know, Robert Louis Stevenson was born and educated in Edinburgh, Scotland. He was a novelist and travel writer, most noted for such stories as Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Oh yes folks it seems that Mr Stevenson had a bit of a macabre side; Go Robby!

Today though, for your delight and pleasure here is:

Autumn Fires

In the other gardens
And all up in the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over,
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

My Special Guest tonight is…

R S Thomas and Evans

Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in the March of 1913 in the Welsh capital Cardiff and published as R S Thomas. This little welsh number is from the book Poetry for Supper first published in 1958.

When I read this poem my first thought was for poor Evans, on his death bed, alone. Where were his family, friends; neighbours?

Then the macabre in my came out and made me think about the person in the cottage, talking to us about Evans; what was their story? Doctor, Stranger or…

Evans

Evans? Yes, many a time

I came down his bare flight

Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen

With its wood fire, where crickets sang

Accompaniment to the black kettle’s

Whine, and so into the cold

Dark to smother in the thick tide

Of night that drifted about the walls

Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.

 

It was not the dark filling my eyes

And mouth apalled me; not even the drip

Of rain like blood from the one tree

Weather-tortured. It was the dark

Silting the veins of that sick man

I left stranded upon the vast

And lonely shore of his bleak bed.

Image from Pixabay, modified by JRFC