The Ditch,
Fills up, then dries up,
When the times right,
The frogspawn I collect,
To raise and then set free.
Freshly cut grass,
The mild scent of damp used wood smells homely,
As the does the cow dung,
Though it reeks,
It helps the plants.
Curlews, cows and sheep,
Bleating, Mooing,
And whatever sound the curlews makes,
Gives, to me, a calming sensation.
Green,
Bright, Happy.
Brown,
Slightly Warming.
Yellow,
Leads the way.
Grey,
Brings you down.
Soggy,
Feet sink in.
Rough,
Hurts your feet.
Bumpy,
Feet up and down.
The funny shaped tree,
Looking as if,
It wants to give you something,
The derelict barn,
Ripe for conversion.
Billy, a jolly fellow,
Owns the Blacksmiths Arms,
Where we go on Sundays,
12 O'Clock on the dot,
Gives my and little sister a glass of coke,
Mum limiting it to one glass,
Dad saying have two.
Strangers passing, saying Hi as they walk past us,
Us, replying with a friendly Hi back.
The memory of the Railway.
