Following Saxon sword,
Through Christian place.
God for whom this day is named,
Ancient and mighty,
Lost to us his face.
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
Tuesday, 26 February 2013
Those agile limbs, well learned.
Comb and card, with hands worn hard.
Labours prize is earned
Let me here take up my place,
Just like those fates of old.
Sit and spin, whilst gossiping.
Ages past were told.
Let me work upon my loom.
Thus our passions weave be spun.
Weft and warp, in bliss be caught.
Cloth of care begun.
Monday, 25 February 2013
Sunday, 24 February 2013
Friday, 22 February 2013
Broad lies the field that yeilds its all,
Between reservoir and stone wall.
Clay is the toil turned soil again,
Carved with care and joy and pain.
Dark is the sky clad high in cloud,
Deep crafted by man, plain and proud.
Etched the land, this hand harvested,
Ever worked, season by and tested.
Forty the acre was created and farmed.
For over 3 hundred years been charmed.
Picking blackberries with a stranger,
In the moments bliss, now lost.
Imperial purple stains the fingers,
And thus, my Rubican, was crossed.
Empires fall, as false friends must too,
But how great will be the cost?
Once fine, now tattered, fortunes cloth,
Is held in memories woven frost.