Season Sonnets

 

four-seasonsThese are three sonnets about seasons. The winter sonnet is yet to come, perhaps this Christmas holidays. The sonnets were inspired by where I live and the surrounding countryside, in particular a field behind my house. This collection won the Sir John Western poetry prize at Sherborne school.

-Enjoy

 

Sonnet 1

Some bluebells have appeared, and they transform

Above the frosty floor covered in dew,

They shake away the bygone winter storm

From tiny seeds to stunning flow’rs anew.

I spot a deer and foal approaching near

To where I sit under a tree, they pause,

And bow horned crowns while eating without fear,

The wonders of life surround me as I watch.

But now a ray of light falls to the earth

Illuminating every single drop

of dew upon the ground, its death and birth.

Its short lived life of beauty then it, stops.

Spring colours have returned, green, blue and so

The brilliant sun will watch the fields below.


 

Sonnet 2

There’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be

Than lying in this golden field of wheat;

The bluetits’ calls are washing over me,

Their melody so delicate and sweet.

The heads of corn sway gently in the wind

That brings to life the dust along the track;

it soars into the air and starts to blind

My watchful eyes and so I turn my back.

But when I look around, there’s so much more

To see, the grass, tree root, two bees that glide

On past beneath the towering sycamore

That grows above the earth, so tall and wide.

I rest against the tree’s rough bark while all

The birds and insects join their blissful call.


 

Sonnet 3

The falling leaves are scattered on the ground

Unwanted, tossed aside they decompose

Into the ground where bluebells lived, no sound

Of chatt’ring birds that play amongst the rose.

The rolling fields are naked, just the bare

Earth is exposed, mud churned up by the wind

that strips the peaceful trees of clothing. Where

has my field gone, the one I left behind?

A single snowflake drifts in front of me;

I watch it gently fall and while spellbound

The wind picks up and now it’s gone, only

A little robin pecking at the ground.

The last of Summer’s leaves have tumbled down,

The ground is painted yellow, red and brown.

 

 

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