Tuesday, 11 February 2014

A poem by Monica Timms


Three Cowslips

You go past the lake
to the left.
Past where the children play
Along the path
and up the hill
past the green
where grow the red wild roses
that smell of ponds cold cream.
On a little hill, facing south.
There we found three cowslips
In January.  Three cowslips.

No comments:

Post a Comment