Butter Wood

Through lanes and tracks
skipping a dusty path
the sun's warm breath
caressing limbs
till gilded pink and gold
we hovered like lazy bees
in the lane we felt the fever
of clover-mead, wild with a
taste of fox glove stroking
the flanks of idle cows

Down to the murky pool of yellow
butter. Cupping our hands
to hold its secret treasure
Whilst muddy eyes on guard
Retreat, growling
insults in a foreign tounge


Blogger Renee Wagemans said...

Hi I just came across your blog and read your poems

They really are nice
Great job


11:43 PM  
Blogger thinkpad said...

hey...wow...the way u express so much in such few words is mind-blowing.i love the way u put the words to use.

12:13 PM  
Blogger nomadic_waves said...

A Pretty poem...

12:27 PM  
Blogger iamnasra said...

Amazing how many vivid images create a new image...
When ever I read your poems, Im at journey of seeing many things out of my expectation

Well done

12:39 PM  
Blogger NicoleBraganza said...

You weave words together so wonderfully...

1:03 PM  
Blogger Gama said...

Wow this is just amazing. The use of the metaphor is brilliant... I love it!

6:09 PM  
Blogger gulnaz said...

such a lovely poem, so summery...so buttery!

6:14 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Renee thank-you glad I discovered yours too.

thinkpad what a lovely compliment, thank-you.

Nomadic waves I love the picture thank-you.

Iamnasra it's lovely that you feel that, your work has taken me to a different part of the world through your eyes. It is special that we can share our thoughts

7:04 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

7:29 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

7:31 PM  
Blogger BM, The Necessary Movement said...

Wow great stuff!! Amazing imagery!! Gama brought me here and I will bring myself to continue!! again, great stuff!!

8:38 PM  
Blogger Neel said...

It is a lovely poem, but it seems to have a deeper message as it ends with "insults in a foreign tounge." It is hard to not be affected in some way by the recent events of the world and most notably Britain.

Even worse is to think that Yorkshire is so far from London that there would be no connection, but we know otherwise. Please forgive me for getting political, I know it makes some people uncomfortable and I shy away from it on my own blog for the most part.

My family is from Lancashire and Cheshire, though littered throughout the country, and I have spent many wonderful times in England.

I was in England from Dec to March and planning to go again at the end of the summer. I certainly hope things will not change to drastically.

I truely enjoy your writings and your drawings. Thank you for the recipe.

11:48 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Neel, I sadley these things have lead to not just phisical destruction of their victims and their families, but also has stired things up for all those people who did not commit these acts but share their religion, these are sad times. But my poem has no deeper meaning, I can see where you're coming from but the muddy heads belong to frogs, who set out to tell us off in their own language for invading their space. As a child I liked to get as close to any animal I could as much as possible, hence I've been bitten many times, fortunately I have never had a friend who owns a tiger or well you know what I mean.

1:44 AM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Fancy you coming from England, what took you so far away? The weather perhaps, I love the place but for that.

1:46 AM  
Blogger nin said...

nice job.....

3:58 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Nicola your words set me thinking and turned into a poem. I will post it properly later but I thought I'd share it as you inspired it.

The Weaver of Words

Wind’s voice rattles clouds
Carrying the songs
Of the weaver of words
Fingers coarsened polished
To the point of a needle
Winding dazzling Ls
From a skein of silk
‘Skilfully’ she weaves
From an apes fist
‘Deceit’ from spider tears
Deftly her fingers dance
‘Azure’ ‘cornflower’
Float towards the sky
Catching a thread she joins
Consonants to vowels
Whispers them to the wind
And into the souls of men.

Gamma thank-you I've managed to sort out posting on your blog now

Gulnaz this is a secret place from childhood, I added the butter although I'm sure it was the sort of pond that my parents would have required me to be fumigated and disinfected after playing near, so it was the best place in the world

4:05 PM  

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