Poet on the Hill.

Poet on the Hill.

He sits,

upon a lush green hillside

smothered in Bluebells.

Sad rain has drooped all petals,

now hanging cobalt-blue kisses.

Far beyond an ordinary wood,

with familiar faeries,

red glides of foxes follow

shallow impressions of a doll’s footprints,

trailed between forlorn firs.

A river of Alpines create

tapestries of form,

run rapidly, as Cowslips

dangle dainty fragranced flowers.

Anemones...aristocrats of spring,

sprinkle over mossed meadows.

He turns eastwards,

gazes waves of Tulips, white...

Banquet, bloomed for his imagination.

Muse infinitely multiplies...

Staring, he transposes the vista

into a lake of ballet swans,                                                                

a reservoir of pure quartz,

a quivering sheet of shivering snow.

The poet smiles,

metaphors researched

in patchwork thoughts.

Weeping willows conjured,

leaves cast dappled shade

over creamed edges.

Ferns saturated in luscious green,

fountains of lime.

Creative friend, lover and master, 

within...

dwell on his deliverance,

storm flushed tears spill.

In the same breathed air

a nightingale sings,

to a sea of rippling white Tulips.

The poet sighs as

muted, orange- flushed,

mauve clouds drip

from indigo fading sky.