The slender poplars
quiver in expectation
as Spring approaches.
Heads bowed, willows wash
long lustrous gold-green tresses
in sun-flecked rivers.
Dying russet leaves
fall; a discarded ball-gown.
The dance is over.
Silver birches, stark
against a monochrome sky,
bleed internally.
Ros Willard
Blog Archive
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2014
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June
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- Before The Service - Vic Gamble
- Here I Go - Lester Queripel
- St James - Diane Scantlebury
- Angry Falls - Fred Williamson
- Depth of Silence - Joan Raleigh
- Today While You Shine - Ian Duquemin
- The Traveller - Ros Willard
- Times Whispers - Trudie Shannon, Fred Williamson &...
- When We First Heard the News - Chris Hudson
- The Last Hours of Edith Cavell - Joan Willard
- Moon From Attic Window - Vic Gamble
- Our Beautiful Summer Days - Lester Queripel
- The Rubbish Tip - Susan Jones
- Nostalgia Is Proportional To Love - Marianna Pliakou
- A List Of Birds - John E Blaise
- Ten is the Magic Number - Diane Scantlebury
- Return To My Childhood - Fred Williamson
- Incy Wincy - Jean Jorgensen
- Wash Day - Joan Raleigh
- A Memorable Visit With a Tiger - Elizabeth Fisher
- Fatal Error - Drew H.W.
- Trees - Ros Willard
- She Might Just Succeed - Ian Duquemin
- Wired To The Universe - Trudie Shannon & Lester Qu...
- The Behemoth of the Deeps - Chris Hudson
- Why I Keep Coming Back - Ron Blicq
- Sonnet to a Guernsey Cow seen on L’Ancresse Common...
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