The Friendly Fields of the Heart

Welcoming you to the these friendly fields and lanes
is like welcoming you to my heart. For this landscape 
is as much part of me as my blood...


From Windmill Hill the whole world lies out before us.
In summer skylarks scatter their songs on the wind as it plays among the knee-deep grass.
In winter, rooks haunt the racing clouds.

On a still day you can hear the bells ring out over the roof-tops and up to the Wordless Wood (on the hill on the right).

As summer turns, the fields become
sweeping oceans of green.

Footpaths thread their way over field and meadow,
and stiles provide an opportunity to sit 
fill the lungs and let the spirit soar.

Orchard Hill. 
Oh come with me to Orchard Hill and let us see if we can
touch the clouds with our fingers . There we shall see
such wonders
and be glad that we're alive.

There is a saying (made by those who know such things)
that when the gorse is in flower, ablaze with the yellow fire
that does not burn, that it is "The Kissing Season".

I once asked my mother (who is a botanist) at what time of year
the gorse blooms? She said that it can bloom all year round.

The church looks out over the huddle of farm yards and houses
smelling of damp stone and mystery.

Its clock slowly counts the years,
measuring each of our lives
before welcoming home with a smile.

Have I mentioned the lanes?
Oh, the lanes, the lanes!!
Stand just one moment
and listen to the signpost's song.
It will take you to such wonderful places;
through woods and alongside small fields
patch-worked with shadows of clouds,
past meadow and barn,
sleepy farmyard and lonely cottage...

As the summer grows old
the smoky fuses of the willow-herb fuses
begin to ignite the colours
of autumn.

Neither the fields fear the harvest
nor the trees their winter sleep.
"All is well." they promise the coming year.

Over the wooden stile there is the Wordless Wood
and it is beautiful.

Winter comes softly to the Wordless Wood

... and the sheep breathe clouds into the glass-like air...

... the rooks above Windmill Hill hang like heraldic emblems
upon the cutting westerly wind.

... with toes and fingers numb 
and red noses raw with Winter's bite, 
come in for a while... 
the kettle is on... 
... take a seat and tell me all about



  1. Hello~
    I would love to feature one of your poems in the magazine Scarlet Pink (, as I think you are a superb writer and express yourself and your emotions so tastefully well. I tried to locate an email address on your blog but did not see it. If you're interested, please get back to me at Thank you~ Kelly/Dandelion twist & Editor of SP.

  2. That would be wonderful - thank you very, very much. I will be in touch.

  3. Wonderful photographs – very familiar places – to go with wonderful words – not known, but still with a familiar tinge…. I love your vantage point from the church tower, too!


For your voice is important... and words that are shared grow wings.