A Lonely Heart in a Thunderstorm
A lonely heart sets the table but is she a Milly,
a Betty or a Mabel. Tea, coffee, cakes and ale
but outside there blows a gale. Sash cord windows
rattling like chains, thunder and lighting tormenting her
brains. A frail old lady who always lays up for tea but no
one comes not even her family. As the rain pours down she
gives a little frown as she looks at a photo in her wedding
gown. A picture of love on her wedding day, a day she
never wanted to go away.Now all that's forgotton as the
clouds roll together, will her lonely heart stand up to this
gale force weather. She draws the curtains and says
goodnight to the storm then sits by the fire where its
cosy and warm.
No visitors tonight she says to the cat who lay curled up
on the fireside mat. Again she views her wedding day and
asks the Lord to show her the way.Then she holds the cat
to her lonely heart so that they will never be apart. The dear
old lady died that night and the cat now sits on her burial site.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Winter of Discontent
I remember a winter a few decades ago.
Where our dear England was covered in snow.
It started on Boxing Day with a blizzard from hell
then in the course of a week the snow just fell.
This once green paradise was now a shroud of white
and everyone was suffering from chillblains and frostbite.
Outdoor life was like an indoor fridge
where everything had frozen like a mountain ridge.
Abandon lorries on the side of the road
men were freezing even their load.
Villages cut off all over the land
so in came the troops to lend a hand.
This was the winter of discontent that lasted from
Christmas, and way past Lent.
As one lot of snow cleared, it would return again
to bring freezing cold tempretures and a lot of pain.
Wind would blow both night and day, and still the snow
never went away.Drifts of snow standing six foot high
just being topped up with snow from a winter sky.
So what of this winter of ice and snow
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Where is Christmas
Where is Christmas that holy night when a star shone out
so clear and bright.
Where is Christmas when a child was born and there in a
manger he lay meek and forlorn.
Where is Christmas with sherpherds and kings with beautiful angles
on silken wings.
Have we forgotten this Christmas story or do we just think it is full of pomp and glory; yes a king was born but he had no crown and his palace was a stable in Bethlehem Town.
There were no trumpets to the sound of his birth, although he was king of all kings to rule over the earth.
He had no gifts of white steeds to ride, just a lamb and a donkey
that lay by is side; with Christmas tidings brought from a far by
by kings and sherperds that followed a star
So where is Christmas this one of long ago, is it forfotten or do we really want to know.
We light up our homes with celebration in mind and every year we
think is Christmas becoming a bind.
We must stop and think and show some compasion and stop
spending money as if it is going out of fashion.Lets look at
Christmas and set this story in our hearts
before it is lost forever and it's meaning departs.
Christmas is a time for giving because the Lord gave us his son
so let the celebration of his birth be second to none.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Tall Story part two
There is a bridge that crosses over a river
A river that is eerie and makes you quiver
With the light of the moon the river will gleam
and a boat will go sailing, on its own down
stream. The mist will come from out of the trees
and horrible sounds can be heard in the breeze.
It sounded like cats caught up in a fight a claim
for territory in the dead of night, but cats never fight
on the waters edge just in case they fall over the ledge.
A river bank full of matted reeds where plants had died
without dispersing their seeds.A man dressed in green
who paddles the stream who can be seen clear in the
moonlit beam.Sometimes you hear him digging on
the side of the river bank, could this be true or is it
some sort of a prank
A river full of alge green and that's how it had
always been. No carp, no bream no fish to fish not
even a place for a secret wish.
No river bank wildlife to give it grace, just run over the
bridge and get out of this place.
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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