Surrounded

One foggy day, one foggy night,
no sun, nor moon to give us light.
An opaque mist steals over all,
not see-through, just an eerie sprawl
of candy floss. Such tones of white,
lingering like a odious blight.

One foggy dawn, one foggy chill,
there is no warmth, temperature nil.
It’s closing in, and firmly wrapped,
no sign of lift, one’s feeling trapped
here in our world. Sits, silent, still,
trespassing of its own free will.

One foggy land, one foggy scene,
no view to see where one has been.
Nothing in front, nothing behind,
just a place where one is confined,
surrounded by one vast smokescreen,
clear small oasis in between.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Delightful Sight

Buttercup and celandine,
Thrust upwards through the soil.
Tempted by the warm sunshine,
To join the bright trefoil.

These flowers of spring beneath the feet,
Are glorious blooms to view.
Their gentle faces tilt up and greet,
The dawn of each day, new.

Under the trees they're shaded,
From the summer's burning heat.
In splendour they are paraded,
To make the meadows sweet.

So frail and delicate they seem
But their strength is hidden away.
A beautiful creation so supreme,
They hold you in their sway.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Pleasure Of The Thought

A cat lays stretched out, contented on a wall,
The Farmer's Boy comes whistling down the lane,
One cockerel now proclaims his morning call,
And day begins to make swift way again.

Then others enter now upon this scene,
As to their daily duties they attend,
Some goats are tethered on the Village Green,
And the Miller, slowly starts, his flour to blend.

Three dairymaids with tasks to do, now run,
To cows, who await, their creamy milk to yield,
And as the dawn now welcomes in the sun,
It beams, from all the heavens, this land to gild.

What a pleasant picture here for us is wrought,
Leaving one with all the pleasure of the thought.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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I Could Not Understand

An Angel knocked upon my door,
I could not understand what for,
And in a soft sweet voice he said,
Do you realise that you are dead!
I replied, I did not think it so,
But then again how could I know.
How was I to believe this news,
Yet he was not wearing any shoes,
And he was floating around my place,
With a beaming smile upon his face.
I sort of thought that he may be right,
Something strange had happened in the night.
For I had felt myself begin to rise
Up from my bed. Maybe my demise!
He turned and placed together his palms,
Then opened up his slender arms,
And taking my hand he flew with me,
Into God’s heavenly eternity.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Closing Day

The sunset wore a cloth of gold,
spread out across the sky.
With flaming hues, the daytime blues,
had vanished and did fly.

The view stunningly breathtaking.
A painter’s coloured dream.
Where sable brush, had caused a blush,
as that of a molten stream.

The scene became one of splendour,
rich and vibrant its glow.
One’s mind thrilled at, the Artist that,
set up this awesome show.

The depths of those rosy colours,
all moving constantly.
Made them all blaze, and all did gaze,
at the glory there to see.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Smooth Velvet

Bright stars are coming out
the deep dark sky to light.
Glinting from far above
such blackness to ignite.

They beam towards the earth,
from so many miles away.
Worlds that now are empty
of life. They’ve had their day.

Tapestry of diamonds,
on lush smooth velvet seen.
Sparkling, all these jewels,
with the moon in between.

Twinkling with goldenness,
pin points in the blue.
Shining every night-time,
giving an awesome view.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Just A Machine

It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
Four wheels that travel from A to B.
Why worship this idol that you see,
That’s pretty silly, don’t you agree.

It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
Costing a fortune, must keep its shine.
Had to have it, this knockout design.
Thought it simply something so divine.

It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
Depreciates in so quick a time.
Won’t last long, rusty, bang goes its prime.
It certainly won’t be worth a dime.

It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Electrically Charged

You are a virtual powerstation with your electric personality.
There's nothing static about you.
You send my voltage sky high,
and I have ample reason
to switch off, from your forcefulness,
for I feel overcharged.
Watt with the shock of the current situation,
I feel like blowing a fuse.
I need to be brought back down to earth.

I am going to socket to you baby, and stay on line.
I love my connection with you, and would like
to keep in contact.
I will be doing the circuit,
but please cable me,
and meet me sometime,
at the Junction Box on the station.

We could sparkle together, be fused together,
and be connected together.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Patterns Of Herringbone

Step out along those well worn pathways,
through dappled woods, beneath lush trees.
View verdant grass as it gently sways,
wafted by a soft balmy breeze.

Tread blithely down well known byways,
over winding hills and flowing streams.
Out across the salty golden bays,
where the sand is kissed by bold sunbeams.

Move slowly through well paved alleyways,
between the old walls of brick and stone.
Knowing that people back in past days,
walked these block patterns of herringbone.

Stroll towards well hidden bridleways,
where wild flowers edge the gritted tracks.
Stand still and watch the sheep as they graze,
then take a nap, against warm haystacks.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Page Stays White

I so want to write, but try as I might,
the words don’t come, this mind’s an empty drum.

Cells remain shut tight, ideas just won’t bite.

Brain’s full of bunkum, notions are struck dumb.

It’s an terrible plight, because the more you fight,
the less you succumb.
Not a single crumb will see the light.
I’m not sure why, quite!

But I’m feeling glum, I’m hitting a problem.

Can’t my wits be bright. My thoughts should unite
in my futile cranium, and that is saying some.

I so want to write, but the page stays white.

New poems ought to blossom, in a state of equilibrium.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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