More Poetry to Reflect On

By James Hathersage

Book Description.

Another anthology of eclectic poems from everyday subjects and the odd historical theme. The poems are written in an accessible style and all of these poems are of the traditional rhythm and rhyme variety. The wide variety of subject matter is a deliberate plan, and in reality, the choice of themes is endless. These poems have always been primarily composed for the enjoyment of the reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Hathersage
• Release date: Apr 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215111352

Book preview

2. A Bit of a Problem?

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I should have listened, so amiss,

They said that it might well do this,

Now I’ve hit a spot of bother,

Feeling pushed into a corner.

There’s been a tiny little hitch,

They said there was a minor glitch,

Caused by the small, red thingumajig,

And so we’re lucky, nothing big.

Nothing to write home about,

It sorts itself I have no doubt,

Troublesome? A little hiccup,

A storm inside a little teacup.

We shouldn’t have more fun and games,

Avoiding calling others, names.

I’m hoping just a small rough edge,

And not the thin end of a wedge.

Mind you, it helps to have a tissue,

Dealing with a minor issue.

A teething problem, probably,

Just a niggle hopefully.

A fly is in the ointment, see,

Irritating that can be.

Patience in adversity,

And not that word, Enormity,

Or we might very quickly see,

A full blown, damned Catastrophe!

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3. A Church in a Deserted Village.

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The houses are long gone it seems,

Just scars where walls once stood,

Stone building blocks make buildings, now elsewhere,

I think there might have been a road,

At least that’s what my old map showed,

That long gone houses with their Church, could share.

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The remnants of the Village Church

stand stark against the sky,

Three pinnacles defiant to the last,

A testament to masons’ skills,

Withstanding Mother Nature’s will,

Living out a present still connected to their past.

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The timbers of the roof are gone,

Just splinters now remain,

The window mullions empty of their charge,

Small fragments of the glass they held,

The Holy images dispelled,

All scattered on the flagstone floor, discharged.

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Vestments, books and pews long gone,

Bare empty alcoves now,

The font? No that’s been carried far away,

The rood screen, alabaster dust,

The door irons, all reduced to rust,

A fallen stone rood on the chancel lay.

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No echoes from far distant prayers,

Yet what is left was blessed,

One feels a presence standing on this site,

Though it is but a ruin now,

Who says ‘He’ cannot hear your vow,

With your day fast approaching now your night.

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4. A Clouded Dale.

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The fog rolled down the valley,

And the tall trees disappeared,

Swirling wisps in Autumn mists,

Their tryst as Winter neared.

So thickly ‘twixt the branches bare,

It dressed the boughs with