I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

16 May 2008


This is in response to a challenge from Blue Jeans and Lace on MySpace to write something – anything, not necessarily a poem – on a Robert Frost title. So far I think we're all following her lead in which titles to choose, and I've got some catching up to do – so here's my first. (Trusting to fallible memory, I mistook the title. It was supposed to be The Pasture. You can see I'm not so well acquainted with Frost.)


The very word sounds lush,
creamy, like the thick milk
from those contented cows
in an ad I heard so often growing up
that it seeped forever into my brain.

But around here the pastures
look skimpy, the few dairy herds
appear either stressed or bored
(and boredom itself, of course,
creates a kind of stress).

I'm not enamoured of cows.
City child, I thought them
lumbering beasts, their horns
threatening, their smell vile.
And they seem to lack personality.

What I love is trees.
These hills and river valleys
left to themselves, teem with trees.
Down around the Richmond, autumnal tones
line the roadways now and dot the fields.

Here on the Tweed it's mostly natives,
tropical natives with their own colours –
bright red and yellow flowers and leaves,
and the rich variety of greens –
flourishing in this earth, their pasture.

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