Long Hedgerow Poems
Long Hedgerow Poems. Below are the most popular long Hedgerow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hedgerow poems by poem length and keyword.
The weather was just how I liked it
Looking like it would stay dry
The breeze had the sharp tinge of winter
Beneath a low overcast sky
The thick blackthorn hedgerow behind me
Bordered the tangled beech wood
In front was a sowing of Rape seed
The shooting from here should be good
The ditch in which I was standing
Was shallow and recently dried
I put up my camouflage netting
As kind of a temporary hide
I looked across my field of fire
It spread further than buckshot would reach
So I opened my trusty old twelve bore
And slipped two Eley five’s in the breach
I saw something off in the distance
Out on the old bridal trail
I knew straight away it was Reynard
I could see the white tip on his tail
This dog fox was working the hedgerow
Looking for something to eat
In a week or two he won’t be hunting
For vixens will soon be on heat
Then came a sound to my left side
I heard the dry rustle of leaves
I eased off the safety catch gently
And stood still not daring to breathe
Nearby from a patch of dead Teasel
A Pheasant was poking its head
It’s wattles were white as a snowflake
Round it’s eye was a dash of bright red
It’s head and neck seemed to change colour
With a green and blue oil like sheen
It sported a thin clear white collar
The clearest one I’d ever seen
Cautiously into the open
It was only three meters away
I was stunned by it’ breathtaking beauty
This vision is with me today
It looked like a fowl made of copper
Each breast feather tinged with a Pink
And edged with the finest black outline
As if they’d been sketched in with ink
It’s wings were a blend of dark ochre
Mingled with olive brown hue
It’s tail was two thirds of a meter
What was this hunter to do
Quite unaware of it’s danger
It slowly strolled on to the crop
Carefully I raised my shotgun
But something inside me said STOP
No way could I fire at this vision
This beauty by me won’t be shot
I came to an instant decision
Find something else for the pot
I have enjoyed many a pheasant
Washed down with a bottle of red
The countryside here would be poorer
If this lovely creature was dead
The bird by now had become bolder
and had wandered some distance away
With an unloaded gun on my shoulder
I went home having had a good day
I will have bread and cheese for my supper
Form:
No one seemed to take much note at first.
Old-timers on park benches passed a comment or two,
Somebody wrote a letter to the local rag,
but no one (who mattered, that is)
really seemed to mind.
Of course, you will always have
your bellyachers and woolly romantics
with nothing better to do than whine
about the way things are going, -
the loss of bird life, the silenced dawn chorus,
the vanishing English hedgerow,
you know the sort of thing.
The leaves began falling long before autumn.
"Funny," they said, "curious," "that's one for the book."
This was all very interesting for botanists,
environmentalists, chemists and the like.
Such words as "pollution," "soil erosion"
and "deprivation" were bandied about,
but no one was much the wiser though
the experts were agreed on one point.
"Photosynthesis provides the basis of all life."
This was interesting but nothing like
as interesting as the favourite for Ascot,
the football results, the Top of the Pops,
the late night thriller or the FT index.
All that changed.
Foresters and timber merchants became concerned
about the decaying cores of many trees.
The government became concerned, too,
(not so much about the fate of the trees as such
as about the effect the scarcity of wood
was having on the paper industry and inflation).
Then the doom-watchers caught the scent
and there was talk of an imminent ecological collapse,
but the man in the street still
passed it all off as the usual load of rot.
Then Kew Gardens, Epping Forest, Central Park,
the Everglades and the Bois de Boulogne
went the way of all wood.
A tramp, locally known as Nat the Nut,
was found in the village cemetery gibbering,
Before being bundled into an ambulance,
he was heard to say:
"With these very ears I heard 'em groan,
and this is what one of 'em said:
'Tonight we are dying, yew and I,
and the morrow sees us dead.'
And the willows wept in the valleys
and the trees on the hills pined away."
When the harvest failed,
the church bells tolled
for a woe no man could gainsay,
for none doubted then the trees were lost
or held it was only they.
“no!” …
he said, “they’ll ne’er take Piccadilly!”
then downed a pint in one gulp …
tucking five pounds under the edge of
his sodden Churchill coaster,
“bloody awful price!” he grumbled quietly,
turning sharply on his heel to
depart the pub in his best
soldier’s march -
briarwood pipe trailing blue
smoke the entire way
like a reluctant, foggy phantom …
or perhaps the ghostly remnant of
a long lost bonnie lass
joining the cloud of soot that hung
just below the ceiling lamps …
as the pub door jingled and closed
behind him with a growl,
a gust of wind and snow slapped his
careworn cheeks and sobered
him up a wee bit,
taking him instantly back to
the trenches and mud -
his mates’ faces frozen in death
and the smell of mustard gas
stinging his eyes …
he’d had these flashbacks for
many years now
and they never got better with time
just as lucid and real as ever
just as terrifying
just as hopelessly brutal
and always with the question “why?”
why was he the one left alone to
carry this yoke?
lonely, empty, aching in his marrow and
his dejected soul,
he’d had enough of these cold strolls to
the corner and back
the hedgerow his only companion …
Tilly was gone seven years now
Ol’ Tom, his Pembroke Welsh Corgi,
had also passed just recently,
and as the last of his regiment he’d lost the
craving for a cold Guinness at
the end of the day -
the final straw …
‘enough, already’ he thought to himself,
retrieving the prize German pistol from deep in
his woolen coat pocket
(the face of the enemy soldier he took it
from flashing in his mind)
“God forgive me, lad” he spoke to that ghost
“we did our duty” …
when he got as far as the old cemetery he
stopped walking, turned and saluted the
garden of gravestones
his eyes watering with memories …
“no!” he yelled again,
“they’ll ne’er take Piccadilly!”
as his bent, arthritic thumb pulled
back the hammer of the
9mm Luger,
and he smiled with the
thought of seeing Tilly again
Ol’ Tom beside her
and slowly closed his weary,
but sparkling …
eyes.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 23, 2024
Because She Craved the Very Best
by Michael R. Burch
Because she craved the very best,
he took her East, he took her West;
he took her where there were no wars
and brought her bright bouquets of stars,
the blush and fragrances of roses,
the hush an evening sky imposes,
moonbeams pale and garlands rare,
and golden combs to match her hair,
a nightingale to sing all night,
white wings, to let her soul take flight ...
She stabbed him with a poisoned sting
and as he lay there dying,
she screamed, "I wanted everything!"
and started crying.
Keywords/Tags: Rose, Roses, Flowers, Materialism, Possessions, Shallow, Shallowness, Greedy, Greediness, Desire, Lust, Craving, Cravings, Gift, Gifts, Gift-Giving, Ingratitude, Ungrateful, Ungratefulness, Pomp, Circumstance
What The Roses Don’t Say
by Michael R. Burch
Oblivious to love, the roses bloom
and never touch . . . They gather calm and still
to watch the busy insects swarm their leaves . . .
They sway, bemused . . . till rain falls with a chill
stark premonition: ice! . . . and then they twitch
in shock at every outrage . . . Soon they’ll blush
a paler scarlet, humbled in their beds,
for they’ll be naked; worse, their leaves will droop,
their petals quickly wither . . . Spindly thorns
are poor defense against the winter’s onslaught . . .
No, they are roses. Men should be afraid.
The Monarch’s Rose or The Hedgerow Rose
by Michael R. Burch
I lead you here to pluck this florid rose
still tethered to its post, a dreary mass
propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned
(what hand was ever daunted less to touch
such flame, in blatant disregard of all
but atavistic beauty)? Does this rose
not symbolize our love? But as I place
its emblem to your breast, how can this poem,
long centuries deflowered, not debase
all art, if merely genuine, but not
“original”? Love, how can reused words
though frailer than all petals, bent by air
to lovelier contortions, still persist,
defying even gravity? For here
beat Monarch’s wings: they rise on emptiness!
Written: April 14, 2024, For Silent One Forgotten Fields Contest
Rumi Verse: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Forfeited field, forever felicity-free,
Fight framed, flames floating far-flung.
Fleeting focus, favored, albeit forgotten,
Fathomless flotsam found floating.
Upon the shore, whispers of eternal grace,
We pledge to stick together no matter what.
Recollection forever etched won't subside,
As a quiet dove, I whisper vows of love across seas.
To view a planet as one speck of dust,
An untamed flower encloses bliss.
Embrace the eternity within your grasp,
A sporadic instance, in everlasting clasp.
My rain-soaked quartz dreamscape works,
The hazy sky is adorned with stone scrapes.
A canvas of plain faces, speckled in pale gray,
They rest amidst the oak and ivy.
My financial status must have been dire,
April, however, brought spring too soon.
On trees and shrubs, nesting birds croon,
Untamed glory of nature was awe-in to boon.
Time passage has drawn me gray,
Yet faraway farms linger via mindsight.
I discern the robin's song, vivid and clear,
Whilst the sun rises through dawn veil.
I retain awe-inspiring tales of nature,
During May, hawthorn trees grow white.
A chaffinch melody on a sycamore tree,
Whispers of beauty dwell within my soul.
Hedgerow birds moaned all day in June,
Where flows evolve, male pheasants cuck.
The swallows chase insects up high,
The dipper sang along with the river's flow.
Migrants cherish whispers of a beloved past,
Across ancient fields, I wander, lost in reverie.
Wildflowers adorning the natural green,
Violets bloom in a dwarf, unpaved ditch.
Scattered sway stumbled across swards,
I stood solely smeared supra sundown.
Stitched, stripped shards of September,
Summer swing shed surely snatched.
A mother is she who can take the place of all others but whose place no one else can take. Gaspard Mermillod
When I was a baby, you sang me to sleep
Mom, do you recall when we lived in our town?
White and blue lights covered the road steep
Riding through busy paths with your hair down.
How can I serve you with my whole love and soul?
Even years after our final talk, you're still whole
A thorny hedgerow has grown between us
We've even lost the aptitude to rekindle, thus.
I realize you're toiling away to improve our lot in life
I catch you attempting to offer us all a carving knife
Even if it costs you, you can bestow what we need
You never received it, and you made my heart bleed.
When the holidays come, I witness you crying
Forever, a sorrowful song of living and dying
under the shade of a tree in the garden
Is the exposed ground, the wet skies harden?
I realize how firm it was to raise us on your own
You didn't have time for yourself and never alone
Always frying or ironing other children's clothes
And often sweeping up dirt or colds from a nose.
Everything you do reveals your affection
You say you love me, and I feel that connection
I have no doubt that what you're saying is true
I also love you, Mother, even if I rarely tell you.
Mother, you're pure water with white wings that fly
Mother, your voice sings chorally in the ears of the sky
Mother, you're the vital vow and the softest wind
Mother, you're the highest, finest, and kindest mind.
Mother, you're hope, faith, support, and a clear sky
Mother, you're a deep blue sea with an eternal supply
Mother, you inspire creativity in lyrical poetry
Mother, you're a bright hue, an endless love tree.
1st place contest winner
Written: April 17, 2023
Letter To My Mother Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Walton’s Scrapyard
Mr Walton was our local scrap man
He wore a great big hat
His yard was squeezed between
Two terraced houses
And I was always amazed at that
The yard was full of junk
Rusting scrap
And old tat
Tangled up and piled up high
That was fascinating to a Nipper
Like I
Old bicycle frames
Bits off boats
Bits off trains
Twin tubs boilers
Old wire old prams
Parts from a lorry and caravan
Wagon wheels and engine blocks
Infarct If it wasn’t there
It didn’t exist
Because he had the lot
At the back of the yard built up high
He had a pigeon loft aloft
A rat fest I’m pretty sure
I used to watch his pigeons fly around in flocks
Thirty forty Racing pigeons
Maybe more
Us Nippers would scavenge the common
Lie marauding Vikings
Pillaging tips and hedgerow
For metal to be weighed down
To make a few pennies
Or even half a crown
Copper and lead
Made the most brass
And suddenly things went missing
From the White city fast
Mysteriously
A bike left carelessly by a door
Old boiler and wires from an empty house
Piping under the floor
The garden swing
From next door
Please don’t tell
But anything we could sell
Your Mum would turn around
To wash your clothes
Washing machine gone
Just a leaky hose
We’d burn the plastic of the copper wire
That stunk worse than a burning tyre
Tie it in nots or twists
Put it in a sack
And that was that
Off to Mr Walton's
Happy as Larry to weigh it in
And come out
With a pocket full of pennies
In us shorts and a grin
Merrily we’d go
Off toward the sunset
Toe to toe
To the Beeroff
To buy some pop
Spic and fags
With our dough
Yes, we liked to borrow things in those days
Unlike the kids of today
Ooh how shocking.
Peter Dome©2019.
Scant animals with their glassy hoped-for eyes
draw near to my crumbling step.
I think they want to sing me something,
carol a Mozart aria perhaps,
but they cannot
so they lift furry eyebrows
shuffle as if to say, ‘we can’t,
but listen to the wind
in the cavities of our bones,
it whistles both merry tunes and dirges,
it echo’s the past and the present
but all our four paws are here in the moment'.
A jowly mouse
with the face of a New Jersey cop
edges closer than most.
“We are not trying to warn you” it says,
expressing its lack of words
in the brisk modality of pigeon-toed dance steps.
“We are not begging for food or love”
It is Spring now and we are out here
happy to have come through.
We are a deputation, a clique, and a clack
calling you out into the bare hedgerows.
There are new threads and tubes
driving upward from the twiggy earth ---
--- you’re acting like a dead man
and so we gather here
to awaken those other little animals
that nest in your fat and fiber.
Lead them out soon or they will eat you
and you will have deserved it -
that is all.”
I nodded respectfully
at the red whiskered rodent.
Leaving the door open a crack
I went to the kitchen
to chop the head off a dead chicken.
It was time to eat and not be eaten.
Spring is whisking its mush.
A dry wine has aged fizzy and fine,
it is already shaking it’s splashy bubbles
ready for the sipping summer suns
to come.
The light outside these walls is porous,
thus I will go
I will go to the hedgerow,
hang a winter scarecrow by its ankles
until it coughs up, a new free range
Spring poem worth the eating
one with garlicy kisses, a round Romaine lettuce,
with a lightly garnished piquant dressing.
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
A puppy that wouldn’t stop peeing on my tree.
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Two Turtle Doves who dropped a load, as I looked up in the tree.
On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Three little kittens that my puppy, chased up daily into the tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Four sets of ornaments to replace, those destroyed by kittens in the tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Five different promises that he would again, put up, The Silly Tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Six strands of lights to replace those chewed on, by my little puppy.
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Seven hugs and kisses, so I’d PLEASE forget, about the Blooming Tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Eight Trolls a milking, chasing cows thru all my hedgerow shrubbery.
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Nine Trolls a dancing, that all fell on, my once beautiful garden fencing.
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Ten Trolls a leaping, as Caroling candles, burned down into their hands.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Eleven Trolls a smiling and ready to rebuild my burned down front porch.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Twelve Trolls a hammering and a nice big bottle of Tylenol… just for me…
Plus the happy thought, I’d survived a Christmas gift, planned with love… just for me.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and best wishes for twelve days of Christmas joy.
Written 12-18-2012
We walk across meadow and moor
Along tracks where horse and carriage once rode
Treading paths where the poets of yore
In search of inspiration once strode.
Lilac and sage scented hedgerow
Old stone wall needs repair
The Bronte's oft walked this furrow
That now with my best friend I share
Side by side in the sunshine we stroll
Even in silence we still keep up our stride
Stopping by the riverside for a drink and a roll
No prejudice in what we say, we still maintain our pride
Enjoying each other’s company for hour upon hour
Coyly smiling you gently take my arm
Stooping down you pick me a delicate flower
Secure in your company; I can’t come to any harm
Arm in arm we retrace the steps of Agnes Grey
We are enveloped in the spirit of Jane Eyre
Heathcliff and Catherine come out to play
We sense both their joy and despair.
In the plush settings of the hotel we dine
Becoming the tenants of Wildfell Hall
Great company, good food and a glass of wine
We are guests at the Bronte Ball.
We become Jane and Mr Rochester that night
Dancing together in demure and graceful style
You look so handsome in the flickering candlelight
Your arm round my waist, it lingers a while
Climbing the stairs to our adjoining rooms
You look at me longingly; there is no haste
Do we become lovers, or is it too soon
Like a Bronte heroine I remain chaste
Eileen Ghali has been kind enough to create a BLOG about our collaboration poem, please drop by and read it.You can access it via the HOME page
Collaboration Poem By Darren Watson & Jan Allison
9th April 2014