Looking South East from Bishopthorpe
On the topic of bells this week, I became rather wistful and started to yearn for the village in which I grew up near York. The Church of that village (St. Andrews) had a set of bells which were rung with gusto every Sunday and although we didn't attend services as a family, I still find that sound a fond childhood memory. Being a village, set in the countryside, it had wonderful scenic views especially alongside the river and in the autumn it was evocative even more so. The smells of wood burning fires, damp leaves and sugar beet from the fields. Heaven!
So please forgive me while I take a trip down memory lane in this weeks poem:
St Andrews Church, Bishopthorpe.
Those bells
Cool autumnal morn
breaks across the landscape.
Broken cloud
in banks
roll imperceptibly
across the sky.
Muted tones of purples
pinks, oranges and reds
merge;
smudged together
with gray.
A low mist
blankets the ground
and as it rises,
trying to reach
the treetops -
all skeleton bare,
branches raking on high,
it fades and thins.
Crisp air catches the lungs
forcing cumulus billows
upon the exhale.
The slightest nip
bringing rosiness
to the cheek.
Without a breeze
the stillness
does nothing to lift
the dampness
or the leaves
which lie
sodden and muddy
The path winds on
along the river bank
as I bird watch -
the Ducks, the Sparrows,
the Robin, the Thrush.
Sombre hued
Blackbirds and Crows
herald the coming day
in their own
individual ways
until a distant peal
of church bells
welcome the faithful
on a sleepy
subdued Sunday.
I love Autumn! Thanks for reading. ;-) x Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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