The water lies like a silver sheet, with ripples reflecting the Sun;

Hills descend the shore to meet as it has been since time begun.


If I were Monet this vision I’d paint in the ‘Impressionist’ style;

Like the Fisherman or roving Saint, I have stayed here a while.


Alder and Ash compete for the space, Mallard and Finch you’ll find;

Ancient figures of stone with solemn face, on White Island are lined.


Today the frothy mantle of cloud, interferes with the early light;

Quiet the morn; the heron stands proud, eerie shadowy sight.


The Pike stirs in its resting place; Trout watch for an early Fly;

A majestic Swan at a steady pace above them paddles by.


I look at this shore in spring repose, with its floral display so fair;

The Sorrel, Violet and Primrose; woodland carpet beyond compare.


Buds on the trees like flecks of green, will soon steal light from the ground;

Shade to rule where blooms have been, and plants of the glade abound.


A Bumble Bee raised from winter sleep explores the roots of a tree;

The Warbler sings and insects creep, in this domain of the free.


Summer comes to supply the need, ‘Nature’s Fare’ for all to survive;

Egg-layers in bush, tree and reed, await their young to arrive.


The Nut appears along with the Sloe, in time for autumn’s chill;

Haw and the Rowan in glorious glow, ensure the Birds their fill.


Cold winds of winter then shall arrive, to subdue all creatures here;

The weak will die and strong survive, devoid of feeling or tear.


And so, revolves the wheel of time as seasons come and go;

But spring is the time of year sublime, here where the Violets grow.


Monty Alexander 29.3.97





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