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- Skylarks
- by Dave Kirby
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- There is a place not far from town
- a place where no one goes
- where pale green lilies dance around
- as water gently flows.
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- Where Honeysuckle clings and weaves
- round weeping willow trees
- whose primrose golden yellow leaves
- entice the honey bees.
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- A place unspoiled by human touch
- where natural beuty flowers
- which lifts my heart and soul so much
- as I pass away the hours.
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- I savour all these blissful days
- for I know it won’t be long
- till natures colours fade away
- and these summer days are gone.
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- When skylarks have all up and flown
- and thrushes make no sound
- where rusted leaves are tossed and
blown
- along the rain swept ground.
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- On frosted January days
- when winter chills the bones
- I visualise this special place
- not very far from home.
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- I’ll stand above a flowing stream
- upon an old stone bridge
- where scarlet, gold and emerald green
- entwine along the ridge
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- I then hear sounds of summertime
- which melt the frozen rain
- as skylarks call inside my mind
- to take me there again.
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