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THE PRIMROSE
1 stretch, and slowly petals I unfold,
Thrusting up from heart of softest green,
Tender and fragile, glowing palest gold,
Once more the fragrant springtime I have seen.
A shaft of gentle sun caresses me
As searching midst the leaves it finds me here,
Pauses a moment, warms me, then moves on,
imparting life to all both far and near.
Am I to stay within my mossy bower,
Whilst cool young fern fronds circle me around,
Or will the children come within the hour
With shrill cries of delight, when I am found?
Will grubby fingers pluck me from my roots,
In moist hot palm shall I be forced to lie,
And later placed in water fresh and cool,
Or dropped upon the dusty road to die?
Yet should my fate be thus, one thing I know,
My Maker will not turn and pass me by,
But gently raise and plant me, and I'll bloom
For ever, in His Garden in the sky. |
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A SMALL BEGINNING
It all began with one small flake,
Before the world was yet awake;
A microscopic miracle
Of beauty unbelievable,
Designed with fragile pattern rare,
Descending through the cold night air.
And following its tiny brother
A second flake, and then another,
Till the night sky, black and vast,
Became a swirling, seething mass
Of twisting, spinning flakes of snow,
Falling to the earth below.
It settled on roofs, and streets and ground,
Trees, fields and bushes all around,
And silently throughout the night
A mantle spread of purest white,
So whitely radiant, can it be
That heaven shows greater purity?
Trees' heavy laden branches bowed
'Neath cold, crisp burdens where it snowed,
Mysterious shapes in white were formed,
And every growing thing was warmed
Beneath the blanket Nature cast
To shelter it from winter's blast.
And yet to see this poem in white
That Nature spread throughout the night,
How unbelievable it seemed
That whilst oblivious we dreamed
Before the earth was yet awake,
It all began with one small flake.
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SUMMER RAIN
The sun beats down
On the dry par'ched town
With merciless ray
Through the stiffing day.
All it touches burns,
For the cool rain yearns,
Leaves wither and die,
Children fret and cry;
And the grass scorched brown
All about the town
Longs for the rain.
Then quite suddenly
It seems to be
That the burning sun
Has a brassy tone;
There's a breathless hush.
Tree and flower and bush
In the dusty lane
All await the rain.
Black clouds pile high,
Blotting out the sky
And the burning sun.
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Now the sky grows dark,
No more sings the lark.
And a low wind stirs
In the distant firs,
Moans and sighs and soughs
In the topmost boughs.
A lightning flash
Makes a dazzling gash
Where the clouds hang low
And the fir trees blow,
Distant thunder rumbles,
Growls and grumbles,
Then the first drops fall. |
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And the rain beats down
On the dry parched town,
O'er lintels and sashes
It trickles and splashes,
On porches and roofs
Like the thunder of hoofs,
On the surface of puddles
It bounces and bubbles;
It churns up the mud,
And drenches the sod,
The flowers are flattened;
And footsteps are patterned
On soaked muddy path
In field, and in garth.
With gurgles and splutters
It spills from the gutters,
With pattering decreasing
'Tis finally ceasing,
And the sun comes out.
And the sun goes down
On the bright, wet town;
And it is refreshed. |
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