Thursday, 20 April 2017

Poems with a Medieval bent.

I wrote these poems a few years back with the tunes Greensleeves, Over the Hills and the Three Ravens swirling around in the back of my mind. I dispensed with all the Ye, thou and thy nonsense. I'd ultimately like to see them illustrated in some form or another. Any takers?

The Jigsaw Tree

Autumn is a never kind to the Jigsaw Tree
All the pieces falling off making the image hard to see
The visage seems all set to change
Then it all falls apart
And leaves large holes where the picture used to be

 Winter is the saddest season for the Jigsaw Tree
It sits in a forest of skeletons just like a cemetery
The creatures leave
The nests all empty
 With bareness showing. only snow to cover its modesty

 Spring brings new hope to the Jigsaw Tree
The creatures all return with the bringing of the Green
The pieces start to fit together
To form a brand new picture
Only the box top is missing to reveal the final scene

 Summer is the time of the Jigsaw Tree
Its picture now complete for all the world to see
A million different pieces
Hidden from first sight
But many glances later reveal a new mystery

All the seasons cannot replace my Jigsaw Tree
 Where I painted you many times to complete my final scene
You are my missing piece that has now been replaced
By the grey stone memorial
Lying at its base.

NOTE: yeah, I know jigsaw puzzles were invented in the 18th Century, not very medieval at all but I liked it better than PUZZLE tree.

The Apple Cart

The apple cart
With its seasonal spoils
Is bouncing down the path
Young men sneak a quick hand in
To please a passing love
And small ones gather the fallen fruit
To take home to their Ma

The Hay cart
Is a busy wagon
Pulling all the chaff
To make sure all the farm beasts
can be fed during the harsh
Mothers pack the beds so children
 don’t sleep on cold hard ground

The manure cart
Is not well liked
It makes all catch their breath
As it passes through the square
But all know of its rewards
In the production of lovely roses
That fill the maiden's hair

The plague cart
Is an unwelcome guest
That greedily asks to be filled
And the villages reluctantly feed it
With their loved ones now deceased
And watch it disappear out of site
Past the apple yards

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