A Passing

[serge gurkski]

It bore the fern and ash; unfurled a spell
of loose barked silver birch and stretching oak.
Then dallied by the poplar's narrow stroke
to woo a hermit thrush that trilled along
a branch; its spotted breast so proud in song.
The parted bluebells blushed within the glade
as chorused foxglove sang inside the shade,
the mottled woodland wrapped me in its shell.

The years, like winds of old are cast away
and with them, died the splendour of the trees.
No more the summer's dell, and gone the trails;
as sewerage pipes are threaded through the brae.
The wooded hills no longer stand at ease.
Now terracotta houses rise like sails.

---

2nd edit. i did play with the rhyme on L's 1 and 8, as well as some tinkering elsewhere. thanks again to all who helped.

A Passing

It bore a trace of fern, unfurled a smell
of loose barked silver birch and stretching oaks.
Then dallied by the poplar's narrow strokes
and wooed a hermit thrush that trilled along
a branch; its spotted breast so proud in song.
The parted bluebells blushed within the glade
as chorused foxglove sang inside the shade,
the mottled woodland wrapped me in its spell.

The years, like winds of old are cast away
and with them, gone the softness of the trees.
Now terracotta houses rise like sails
and sewerage pipes are threaded through the brae.
No more the wooded hills, no more the breeze.
No more summer's dell and lost, the vales.

---

thanks for all the feedback this is the 1st edit

original.
A Passing

It carried scent of ferns, unfurled a smell
of loose barked silver birch and stretching oaks.
Then dallied by the poplar's narrow strokes
and wooed a hermit thrush that trilled along
on branch; its spotted breast so proud in song.
The parted bluebells swayed, within the glade
as chorused foxglove sang aloud in shade,
the mottled woodland wrapped me in its spell.

The years, like winds of old have bled away
and with them flew the softness of the trees.
now terracotta houses rise like sails.
and sewerage pipes are threaded through the brae.
No more the wooded hills, no more the breeze.
No more the summer's dell, no more the vales.

---

i pronounce sewerage as sew ridge

hi Billy,
as usual I ignore what others said but believe it or not, I got you:
No line by line this time for good reasons.

I am ok with a nineteenth century larmoyant (I guess you call it mawkishnessishlish ;-) )
about -what is it? - life being futile.
Your phrasings fit the bill. My concern is
that it is not here in the now.
Not in my Now.
Otherwise ok
I dunno.
see: Let me be honest, I had to offer some kind of meaningful comment to fit some asshole's bill. So: yeah, why not: here we roll. yawn.

And I give a heartfelt shit about who defines criteria, come on, comes it to poetry.
It is a 19t century Poem and a good one.
I speak my informed heart and now go ponder and judge for yourself if what this reader of your poetry thinksis meaningful or dismiss it.
etc...




.