Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Mid September, and the light morning passes,
A dew appears on the overnight grasses;
A chill in the air, though the sun breaks through,
Full moon in the sky, still in full view.
Trees rustle their branches, as the winds increase,
Leaves will continue to drop ‘til the gusts have ceased;
Foxes tear at the sacks left for rubbish collection,
When disturbed, trail their debris in every direction.
She’d always wanted a garden,
Somewhere to grow a few flowers;
She cultivated her little plot
For many enjoyable hours.
People commented on the massive blooms,
The scented air was Oh, so sweet;
But the only trouble with flowers is…
There’s nothing there, you can eat !
She scratched her head, and thought a while…
Decided that an allotment, she would buy;
The dream of fresh fruit and vegetables
Was of a year long, healthy supply.
The sparkling strands of the spiders web,
Festooned with morning dew; a dazzling sight;
A pearl necklace, suspended between branch and twig,
Glistening, in the break of morning’s light.
Brushing against skin as you walk the path
Parting branches, with an outstretched arm;
A fresh awakening, as the jewels bedeck your face,
Sharing unwittingly, their October charm.
The genus Papava, in a field of swaying corn,
Vivid against the ripened gold;
Or scattered randomly, along the hedgerows,
Petals at risk from the morning cold.
Symbollic of the gallant fighting forces
Alone, in the mud bogged trenches,
These scarlet heads sway in Summer breeze,
A jewel, beside rustic, roadside fences.
It’s personality tainted, by narcotic use,
Yet, it’s outstanding beauty, a floral splendour,
The Poppy remains a dominant feature,
Prominent , eyecatching, and tender.
Thousands of golden trumpets are raised
To herald the return of Spring;
Daylight, gradually returning again,
Birds chatter, and chirp and sing.
Cold days have passed us by once more,
Another Winter is thankfully over;
Spring brings with it, an sense of brightness,
Of fields carpeted with lucky clover.
Roadside verges explode with a fusion of colour,
As bulbs that had laid dormant, reappear;
Vast stretches, like an artists palette,
Yes, Spring is certainly here.
Nestled amongst the grass on the roadside banks,
A delicate, white head can be found;
On a moist filled stem, of whitish green,
Standing a few inches from the ground.
A favourite for children to casually pick,
And hold up to face height;
It’s head an aura, so fragile,
Of interlocking stems; a magnificent sight.
A great deep breath, then blow out their cheeks,
Watch the flimsy spores rise in the air;
Floating, in suspended motion,
Drifting, without a care.
Our collection of nature poems includes all sorts of poems about animals and nature, including poems about the weather.
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