I Flew Away to England.
(A poem composed under the influence of jet-lag at 5 am on the first morning)
I flew away to England
And heard the pigeons coo,
Soft dawn in the morning,
Soft church-flint blue.
We picked the sweet tomatoes,
Drank sweet tea,
And sweet Oliver
Smiled at me.
I flew away to England,
Chestnut, hawthorn, oak.
Tiny windows, graveyards,
Thatch; and light like smoke.
little note: Oliver is my friends' 11 year-old autistic son.
This almost makes me homesick - and I live there!!
ReplyDeleteShucks, praise indeed.
ReplyDeleteI love it. The American poet, Robert Frost, said that writing poetry without rhymes is like playing tennis without a net. (Though perhaps too harsh--I love poetry of all sorts.)
ReplyDeleteYours is lovely, evocative of England though I've only read about it.
Very Nice, Katherine, I especially like the last verse, truly fitting.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing.
http://spacialpeepol.blogspot.com/
You should get jetlagged more often Katherine! By the way - I like your choice of accompanying photo - slightly blurred and suitably nondescript - the world flashing by.
ReplyDeleteKatherine, what a lovely poem! (I'm a pushover for verse even though a lot of people nowadays don't care for it. But when done well, as your is, what a pleasure to read!)
ReplyDeleteThank you all. Glances down modestly at feet and shuffles.
ReplyDeleteI am absolutely rose-tinted about England (and you know by now how much I love New Zealand!). I am always 'high' for 48 hours after I arrive anywhere in Europe, then slowly come down over the ensuing three months...
Which of course means if I'm away less than three months, I'm grinning all the time! (Get a bit homesick around the three-month mark...)
ReplyDelete