Upon a rounded hill top, above the Cheshire plain.
Castle walls all crumbled, yet still up there you reign.
Often time reverses as re-enactments play
Cannon balls are sounded - actors in mock foray.
Steep bank on one side, neither for friend or foe.
It's up the sloping edge, to get to you we go.
Trees growing on your verges, and fields laid out below.
Some keeping their greenness, while others brown they go.
Within your deepest being, so the tales do say,
a well lies holding treasure, to this very day.
With outer rim still visible, the closer that we get,
your shadow is pure symmetry, before the sun has set.
In The Fields
A summer's day, the grasses have grown
from the seed the farmer has sown.
Poppies of red, stems of green
in between the insects are seen.
I do not know your name
you crazy looking fly.
Holding on a blade of grass,
now look me in the eye!
Are you off Sesame Street -
the program on TV?
Reminding me of Gonzo -
that is what I see.
Those hooded yellow eyes
and curvy ended beak.
Or are you just a creature
with the strangest physique?
Your soothing nature benefits body and mind.
Yet just another plant in a field we find.
There you waved in the summer air
giving out nectar as insect fare.
All too soon your time has come.
Petals all withered they've now succumb.
Once you were home to a spider or two.
Webs now empty - none are new.
I could have used you to make tea,
but still your seed will come to me.
Then I'm growing even more
and sell you to the local store.
A yellow tongue to entice
and lure the insects in.
So small yet so sweet
you lie within the grass.
Your delicate beauty
is nothing but a sin.
there lies a sneak.
Out he comes
to take a peak.
No rotting things
for him to eat.
Up and down
he looks for a treat.
No petals yet forlorn
or dying stems for tea.
But lots of sweetest nectar
as far as the eye can see.
Then he spies another
one that soon is dead.
This fly has more goodness
than a measly flower head.
Beeston Castle in Cheshire