Neville

Windfallen

Windfallen

 

My word

that view was something

wasn’t it

Something else entirely

where other

might one ponder and for

so very long and free

 

Gazing on

these orchard fields

where row pon row

of England’s

most finest

both do grow and yield

each fresh harvest

 

Tis here

I might just lay

at least until the morrow

with scent of fallen

bruised and weeping fruit

all about n laid

mid bramble and bracken

 

Windfallen,

both russet and gold

my word, tis such a heady pillow

Now sorely needed

on which to drown

one’s immeasurable sorrow …