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