The trees cry – a poem

Watching the water drops Trickle from treetops, Each one a tear of sorrow. Bare branches forlorn In the grey of the morn, As they wait for a better tomorrow. Even flowering colour Has never looked duller, In sunless cloud choked skies. It’s a pitiful scene Not a springtime dream, No wonder the trees do cry.

Cedar of Lebanon – a poem

With dominant strength You stand alone A Guardian spirit In this garden of stone Sheltering eternity Beneath your boughs Enduring adversity To honour your vows.

Squirrel and the Tree – a children’s story

It was autumn and Squirrel was collecting nuts to stash for the colder months. Before long he had enough and found a beautiful tree among all the others that was full of fruit which he thought would make a great place to bury his nuts beneath.Soon winter came, the trees lost their leaves and squirrel

Photography

As well as writing poetry I also write children’s stories, retell old folk tales and photograph nature so I have branched out and you can now buy some of my photographic images via the link below. http://www.redbubble.com/people/earthmotherart

Stormy night – a poem

Wild wind thrashed And cold rain lashed, The trees were whipped And leaves were stripped. The storm howled in the dark On a November night Battering without prejudice With all of its might. Then dawn came along The storm she chastised And the sun rose in splendour In Novembers blue skies.

November – a poem

November brought the howling wind, He brought the pouring rain, He stripped trees bare Without a care And said “Winters here again.” November brought the darkness, He brought the curling mists, He brought the cold With which he told “By Winter you’ve been kissed.”

Published

I have an article with some of my poetry published in the current edition of Pagan Dawn. The piece is called “Memories of Trees”

Autumns Mystery – a poem

Autumn mornings, Golden glow, Through bronzing leaves The quiet mists flow, And magic holds In the crisp, cool air Where natures secrets Have come to bare.

September morning starts with a sigh – a poem

A low mist clings to the tree line, Fine rain falls from grey skies, No birds singing in the new day, September starts with a sigh. Fading plants forlornly stooping over, Their burdens far too much to vie, No breeze to whisper in the new day, September morning starts with a sigh. The sun yet

Walk to the stream

It has been hot here in Britain with temperatures hitting 32 degrees Celsius and us Brits really are not used to hot weather and just like the plant life is wilting so are we. It’s always much cooler by water so my little girl and I took a walk to the local woodland stream. The