What the wind tells me

When The Wind Blows

The breeze comes And blows me tales of summer meadows.   The wind appears And hisses me stories of life on the far side of the hill.   The gale arrives And roars me poetry from beyond the hidden horizon.   The storm lands And bellows me adventures from a distant shore.

Spring Ball

A Spring Ball

“I am ready!” the woodland quietly whispers. She coyly turns her sun-dappled crown. Revealing her translucent, dancing, slippers And her spring-ball, lilac, gown.   There is always something magical about a bluebell wood. Perhaps because the charming flowers are so temporary, so delicate, so dependent on the season? or perhaps because they are a signal of the […]