A Kettledrum's Arena

There is gorse, of course, and furze growing across the moor.
The oak and ash are there in grouped confusion.
Tousled roaming horses, search for sources of grass, mature,
And the hawthorn and elm, remain standing in seclusion.

Brilliant sunshine burns, and turns the heather, distinctly bronze.
And tumbling brooks sparkle exceedingly, in its glow.
Misty mornings descend, and they befriend the drying fronds,
While natural springs freely bubble and gently flow.

Birds invade this space, and race each other o’er the fells,
Crying and squawking in the fresh clear air.
The scene becomes, a kettledrum’s arena, where music dwells,
And swift and sprightly ventures out the hare.

With ears alert to danger, he’s a ranger on this earth,
But a fine and nimble creature in his guise.
Here one can measure, nature’s treasure, beauty of such worth,
And then again, there is the owl who’s always wise.

© Ernestine Northover

by Ernestine Northover

Comments (12)

Hi Ernestine. If I hadnt seen your name with this I would have known it was you, a true lover of nature seems to somehow have a distintive signature, and you have signed this one so well.10/10 Kindest Regards Dave T
The Yorkshire moors - you took me there and dropped me off for a while, and it felt so good - thankyou Mick
A wonderful, descriptive poem. You have a real eye for detail. Andrew x
hello Earnestine: The new Forest springs to mind as I read it. Some very intersting turns of phrase and alliteration here. Well done Daphne
Beautifully descriptive of the open country I love. I used to roam the high moors when I was youg and strong Now I must rely on memory and poetry too stimulate scenes from the pasr
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