Sanctuary for the soul.
The sun now descends over sacred hills,
Reminiscent of those in forgotten stills,
Still viewed from the comfort of warm window sills.
Fiercely now comes the rain,
Much to our disdain,
No more work to do "Now that is a pain!"
Come quickly blessed time of spring,
Come the time when dew drops sing,
Of a time when summer arrives on the swallow's wing.
For now we must be content with our stock,
Of the tall graceful, hollyhock,
A beauty which non can mock.
There will be work to be completed,
Before the day's depleted,
And then to be repeated.
Spring gives a garden to love,
Tending to the infamous foxglove,
Working as hard as the righteous turtle dove.
The garden provides our fruits and vegetables,
As well as many family fables,
Products that cannot be classified with simple labels.
The colourful line of rocks and shells,
Encircling gentle bluebells,
Marking the position of long lost wells.
This beloved place they would try to take,
That we gift precious time to make,
Beautiful, silent like a placid lake.
Their pollutant air, our cause to form prose,
Deadly and destructive to the age old rose,
Is it only we who see the threat they pose?
(Thank you, reviews and crictical responses would be greatly appreciated.)