POEMS
There Is A Country
There is a country.... where quiet lanes curl and rise across a bounty of small fields, where cottages sit silent and still, made from the stone of the earth, where barns are crafted from oak trees that will last for centuries.
There is a country.... where mountains do not cloud the view, but where the Downs rise and fall like a soft green blanket, where gentle rains visit and irrigate the fields and the flowers, where trees stand tall and triumphant, not in forests, but by old villages.
There is a country.... where people are not hurried, and will always give you the time of day, where little shops have the warmth and welcome of a friends front room, where apples smell like apples, and summer is warm and whispery, where shallow streams glide by graceful willows, where the mornings are cool, and damp, and alive.
There is a country.... where the very ground you walk upon has been walked upon by Kings, where armies of ragged men followed their masters to Kingdoms come, where poets have written words that have echoed around the world, where church bells have rung for centuries uncounted.
There is a country.... where farming is done on foot, where the ploughman still homeward plods, where seasons are four, not one long summer or one long winter, where people still pick wildflowers, and know their names, where blackbirds and thrushes sing and robins and wrens dart from hedge to hedge.
There is a country.... where games are played for sport upon fields and village green, where ships have sailed from sheltered ports to the far corners of the world, where poets and playwrights have set their words upon the face of this earth, where explorers have laid the foundations of freedom.
There is a country.... where the word of law spread across the seas, where government was first born, where freedom first walked, where liberty first lived, where the right to choose was a Magna Carta to every living soul, where courage is inborn, not taught, where humour is self-directed, not borrowed, where love is given, not asked for.
There is a country.... where every British man or woman can return to at any time, and will be welcomed as if they had never left, where going home has no fanfare, no expectations, just a quiet seat by a fire in a small pub, where fish and chips still taste great, and beer still comes in big pints.
There is a country.... where time moves on, yet stands still, where fashions have changed, but not the people, where pride is not worn, but silently cherished, where smiles come easily and laughter is a ceaseless pleasure.
There is a country....that I dearly love....it is England.
Kenneth James Seymour. ©
Do You Remember?
Do you remember...
Seaside deckchairs that cost 6d to rent...Ice cream wafers that would drip all over your fingers and you would have to lick around the edges...the roadside layby where a man in a small white caravan would cook up a hot sausage or bacon sandwich, and serve tea in chipped mugs.
Do you remember...
Quiet pubs tucked away in peaceful country lanes, pints full to the brim, Sunday lunchtime crowds and a warm fire burning in the fireplace...cheese and onion crisps, choc ices at the pictures, and fish and chips on the way home all smothered in salt and brown vinegar...Sunday dinner, and dosing in the chair afterwards...watching Sunday Night at the Palladium with Bruce Forsythe, and listening to Billy Cotton and Educating Archie.
Do you remember...
Railway carriages with strong leather belts on the windows, and the clunk the door made as you slammed it shut...clicking through the turnstiles to see United play, or sitting in a deckchair on Sundays to watch the local cricket match...paddling along the beach with your pants rolled up, eating sandy sandwiches and drinking warm lemonade...walking along the windy pier and spinning metal balls around in circles in the penny arcade.
Do you remember...
The tune that introduced Housewives Choice on the B.B.C. each morning and how it became a staple of everyday life...going down to The Parade to get your shopping...market stalls and loud cheery sellers...the bakers shop, the butchers and the Off Licence, the long queues at the Post Office...double decker buses that took you everywhere you wanted to go.
Do you remember...
Cold upstairs bedrooms, warm cosy kitchens, small front rooms all neat and tidy and kept only for "company"...Friday paydays with your hard-earned wages in little brown envelopes...dressing up to go to the Palais, doing your pools coupon, having a flutter on The Derby, getting your hair done, shopping at Woolworths and the Co-op...sunny days, wet days, springtime walks, and picnics in summer fields, going fishing... do you remember...how can we ever forget.
Kenneth James Seymour ©
There Is A Place.....
There is a Place.....
where fairies dwell, in shady bowers of leafy gardens, beneath hawthorn trees and willow fronds, by quiet brooks, on lily pads, to fly and glide with dragonflies. Where fairies dance in rings of dew, and dewdrops catch the morning sun, and Snowlinia guards jealously the Snowdrops, of winters fresh, cold chill.
There is a Place.......
where fairies live, in darkest woods all still and quiet, who fly among the dappled shadows, among the beech trees tall and strong. Where fairies gather each twilight eve for nightly flights to fairyland, and moonlight catches rainbow wings, and laughter echoes through the woods, and Primrosia sits upon the sweet primrose, green and fresh.
There is a Place.....
where fairies dance, around the mushrooms polka-dotted red and white, beneath the hedges flecked in violet blue, and seated like a nymph of love, she flies, and flutters, and bounds in joy of life and happiness. Where fairies play like children in their sweet delight, and dive, and swish, and tinkle like a silent bell, and Daffinia sits within the cup of every newborn daffodill.
There is a place......
where fairies greet each morning with the birds of dawn, and rush to gather all the rays of sun, and plant each one upon a flower, to grace the earth, and start each day as pleasured as the one before. Where fairies sigh as every flower is picked, and shed a tear upon the stem, and Bluebella rings each hooded flower to tell the bluebells when the day is done.
There is a place.....
where fairies gather at the hush of evening, and light their glowing fairy lamps, and fill the night as fireflies, and touch each others wings. Where fairies rush to deepest woods as night descends upon the land, and silently their prayers are said, and all is still, and lights are dimmed, and quiet becomes the silent ground. And Orchidria rests beneath the orchid rare, and silence fills the dark of night.
Kenneth James Seymour ©
A Blessed Rain
It rained. A gentle, English Summer rain. And I was caught out among its soft spray-like touch. I saw a church, with a porch, and ran to its covering portal. It was afternoon, and it was quiet, and still, and for a moment I was out of the rain. Behind me were two large, weather-beaten wooden doors with great old hinges painted black. I pushed them, with a gentle feeling of reverence, and they opened. A scent of musty wood, old candles, books, incense filled my nostrils. And from a tall stained-glass window came a shaft of sunlight. The sun had peaked through the clouds and now cast this special glow. It fell upon the empty pews, and all I could see were the small particles of dust, dancing and twirling slowly, in this glowing shaft of Heavenly light.
There was a still dampness. Not cold, not wet, but a dampness of age. The walls were stone. Some faded yellow, some in flaky patches of grey and white. Here and there an old faded plaque bore the name of someone who long ago had left these fields. Someone who saw the mornings, and the sunset evenings before I was ever born. He lived among a world of people, of creatures, long gone. And all that remains is his name, upon the wall. How many had come to this place to give thanks, to praise, or just to sit in the peace, as I do now. It is not a big church, but has rows of old worn pews to seat the few who come to be at peace with their God.
The pew was uncomfortable. Only half of my body was on it. On the floor was a kneeling bench on which my feet rested, which I quickly removed in a feeling of guilt, as I realised they were not meant for that. I was tempted to kneel. And I slipped forward, on my knees, my arms folded to support my chin, and for the first time in over twenty years, I was kneeling in a praying position, in a church. And it was all very humbling, and inspiring. I wanted to say something. To pray. But I'd forgotten how. Words of praise would seem false. I felt like an intruder. I was without words. So I sat back.
More light came pouring in through the other windows, and within, the church lit up in musty, faded colours, Doors opened behind me. The quick steps of someone passed down the aisle, dressed in a cassock. A small man, busy, efficient, placed something on the altar, turned and gave me a smile. I half smiled back, like a child having been caught scrumping apples. He passed back up the aisle, and was gone. The church fell back into silence again, and I sat, as peaceful as I've been in many a year.
I sat there until the shafts of light lengthened.. I looked about me, and listened. To distant sounds. And here I was, in an old stone church, in a small village, and it was timeless. The light, the church, the time, the place, the treasured moment, never to be forgotten. Outside, the freshness of newly fallen rain, warmed by the sun filled my senses and my heart. I must thank someone, for being alive.
Kenneth James Seymour. ©
THERE IS A RIVER....
There is a river....that flows peacefully and still through rich green meadows, where willow trees hang their long green ribbons over shadowy still waters, where water, clear and bright, swirls the slow moving fronds of weed like the gentle wind in an Angel's hair.
There is a river....where minnows crowd the sandy shallows, and trout glide regally in rainbowed splendour just below the surface, where May flies dance around their imaginary May pole above the still pools that gather in the darkened corners of the sun-flecked river.
There is a river....where man can leave the toil of life and sit, unhurried, in the timeless pleasure of rod and line, and cast his dreams upon the sun-dappled waters, where hours pass in silence and peace, and where no sounds intrude, save the diving plop of the Kingfisher, in his brightly coloured attire.
There is a river....that swirls and tumbles, through reeds, and under old mill wheels, past flowered cottages, and ancient chuches, where children go barefoot among the pebbled riverbed to seek the bullyhead and stickleback under rocks and stones, and to take them home in old jam jars.
There is a river....whose waters quench the thirst of our sheep and cattle, irrigates the farmers fields, gives life to the fishes and the birds, and tastes cool and refreshing as it falls between the fingers of ramblers and tired thirsty walkers.
There is a river....that has for countless centuries run its gentle course...through the fields of England and brought wealth and comfort to us all.
There is a river...where I have spent many pleasant hours, and days, in the summer of my life, where now I return to whenever I desire,
....... if only in my dreams.
Kenneth James Seymour. ©
THERE IS A GARDEN..
There is a garden....where snowdrops hang their wimpled heads, where primroses gaze from verdant banks, and the first cuckoo calls from a little copse upon a distant hill, and a sleepy cat stretches, welcoming the first warm rays of the new spring sunshine.
There is a garden....where a wooded bank blazes with flaxen daffodils, where the air is heavy with deep-fragranced hyacinths, and where frail, wild, anenomes tumble down towards a brook, where in tiny eddys of cold fresh water marsh marigolds accompany the crisp, green watercress.
There is a garden....with cool shady bowers, secret walkways and hidden arbours, where roses ramble over gently curving archways, and age-old stoney out-buildings bask in the noonday sun, where a wrought-iron table remains forever laid, where a well worn sun-hat rests on a pushed-back chair, and two glasses catch the sun upon a stiff white linen cloth.
There is a garden....where a hidden shed, smelling of warm damp earth, and peat, and composted leaves, and old garden tools, bids the sun through its cob-webbed windows to fall upon old terracotta pots that lie in wait for their place in the sun, and where an ancient weather-stained marble cupid, still smiles and waits for lovers.
There is a garden....where summer is a drone of bees, a flutter of butterflies, and a gathering of birds, to feed, to sing, to gaze upon the gathered beauty so tirelessly cared for by gentle people....where evening airs carry the perfume of jasmine, of sweet night stocks, and of a fading damask rose.
There is a garden....where autumn sends its chilly winds to gather up the drying leaves, where flowers brave the morning cold to cast a final bloom, where a dampness decends upon the earth, and a blackbird seeks the last ray of sun. There is a garden.....where all of mother nature gathers every year to remind me, how close we are to the real life we are so lucky to share with each other, here, in England.
Kenneth James Seymour. ©
There is a City.…..
There is a City......where the morning sun steals across dewy parks, and a river winds slowly past majestic buildings that have shaped the course of a great nation, and of the world. Where Kings and Queens are crowned, and where great people from great places have paid homage. Where poets have written words that echo around the world, and where a playwright once set his plays upon a London stage, that are never ending.
There is a city.…..where if you look closely you will see Peter Pan flying over the chimney pots, and Fagin picking a pocket or two. Where Christopher Robin and Alice will be on their way to the Palace, and Sherlock Holmes will glide silently past you on a foggy night. Where Tiny Tim might give you a smile, and Mr.Pickwick a great big laugh, and you might hear Oliver Twist ...ask for more.
There is a city......where people of a good spirit have lived and raised their children, in narrow streets, in small terraced houses, and can call themselves Cockney Kings and Queens. Where the sound of Bow bells meant you were a true citizen, and the sound of Big Ben reminded you that time waits for no one. Where buskers play under railway arches, and street musicians entertain outside Covent Garden, and Punch and Judy puppeteers capture the laughter and hearts of children.
There is a city......where pigeons keep the mighty Lord Nelson company, and starlings keep up a brassy noise all night long. Where sparrows beg for morsels from lunchtime sitters in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and the blackbirds sing every evening at Ealing Common station. Where you can walk your dog, with ease and without crude notices, and pick golden daffodils in Green Park, or snowy yellow primroses in Hyde Park. Where painters paint, and singers sing, and speakers speak, on wooden boxes by the great Marble Arch.
There is a city.....where great orchestras play in stately halls, and the sound of symphonies drift on the evening air, where choirs fill the The Albert Hall with a thousand voices, and where Handel first wrote his Messiah. Where nightfall brings a peace across a sleeping city, and only dreamers and lovers are abroad. Where towers, and palaces, great halls and castle keeps, cathedrals and churches, guard a green and pleasant place, and where, a regal beauty lies within her royal heart.
There is a city...like no other city...it is London...my heart and my home.
Kenneth James Seymour.©
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THE WINGS OF THE GREAT SPIRIT
If you ever find the feather of a bird, remember it is a feather from the wings of The Great Spirit. You were meant to find it. You must keep the feather. It is a great sign that The Great Spirit knows of your journey through life, and he is helping you make that journey by shedding his own feathers so that you may make your way through life with good fortune and a safe journey. They are HIS feathers, from HIS great wings. If you find many feathers, then your life is even more blessed by The Great Spirit. Remember, you must find The Great Spirits feathers, not be given them. HE places them in your path through life. They come directly from HIM.
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