Pages tagged with Meads

A old soldier lays on his bed it is his last day. The memories of his wonderful life return.
Winters gone and the days get warmer. Buds grow on the trees and the blackthorn blossom has blown away. The mead's are dry the meadows in flower but it is not yet spring a Cuckoo sits on the bough of a tree. It is not spring until he sings. Nature holds it's breath while it waits.
A man gets lost in the beautiful country side and the changing season delights him and he enjoys a lovely day.
A poem about April, walking through parks, meadows, heaths and commons after a hard winter.
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