Skylarks

by Dave Kirby

 

There is a place not far from town

a place where no one goes

where pale green lilies dance around

as water gently flows.

Where Honeysuckle clings and weaves

round weeping willow trees

whose primrose golden yellow leaves

entice the honey bees.

A place unspoiled by human touch

where natural beuty flowers

which lifts my heart and soul so much

as I pass away the hours.

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.

When skylarks have all up and flown

and thrushes make no sound

where rusted leaves are tossed and blown

along the rain swept ground.

On frosted January days

when winter chills the bones

I visualise this special place

not very far from home.

I’ll stand above a flowing stream

upon an old stone bridge

where scarlet, gold and emerald green

entwine along the ridge

I then hear sounds of summertime

which melt the frozen rain

as skylarks call inside my mind

to take me there again.