Words on White by Lynn Woollacott

Words on White
by Lynn Woollacott

The soft winter snow
submits to sighs of weaving wind
between the silver cloaks of wood,
silhouettes of seasoned boughs layered
by the sequence of the soothing song.

It sits on the signpost coating
the symbols with white signature.
Observer to the yield from the sky
she smiles at the sparkle
of the footpath swathed in white,
and stops her wordsmith wanderings
to stand in stillness for awhile
and watch the gentle drifting snow.


Winter’s Beauty by William Henry Davies

Winter’s Beauty
By William Henry Davies
Artist Nicholas Hely Hutchinson

Is it not fine to walk in spring,
When leaves are born, and hear birds sing?
And when they lose their singing powers,
In summer, watch the bees at flowers?
Is it not fine, when summer’s past,
To have the leaves, no longer fast,
Biting my heel where’er I go,
Or dancing lightly on my toe?
Now winter’s here and rivers freeze;
As I walk out I see the trees,
Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep,
All standing in the snow so deep:
And every twig, however small,
Is blossomed white and beautiful.
Then welcome, winter, with thy power
To make this tree a big white flower;
To make this tree a lovely sight,
With fifty brown arms draped in white,
While thousands of small fingers show
In soft white gloves of purest snow.


Holly by Andrew Blakemore

I love this!

Artist Alida Akers

At the edge of the field in a hedgerow so tangled,
So thick and so dense where the holly does grow,
Berries of scarlet are caught in the sunlight,
Its leaves sharp and shining and all is aglow.
The birds make their home inside
Safe and secure there,
They rest in peace and harmony
And all should do the same.

I cut several sprigs there to take home for Christmas,
To lay by the candle the season of love,
The berries the symbol the blood of our Saviour,
And life that he gave for all glories above.
The leaves like the crown he wore
Upon the wooden cross,
They mirror his eternal light
Beneath the burning flame.

At the edge of the field in a hedgerow so tangled,
So thick and so dense where the holly does stand,
The snowflakes start falling and rest on its leaves now,
So pure and so gentle like God’s loving hand.
And I turn and I head for home
For now the day grows cold,
And look upon my holly sprigs
Such passion they do hold.


A Calendar of Sonnets: December by Helen Hunt Jackson

A Calendar Of Sonnets: December
By Helen Hunt Jackson
Artist Jo Grundy

The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes
Of water ‘neath the summer sunshine gleamed:
Far fairer than when placidly it streamed,
The brook its frozen architecture makes,
And under bridges white its swift way takes.
Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamed
Might linger on the road; or one who deemed
His message hostile gently for their sakes
Who listened might reveal it by degrees.
We gird against the cold of winter wind
Our loins now with mighty bands of sleep,
In longest, darkest nights take rest and ease,
And every shortening day, as shadows creep
O’er the brief noontide, fresh surprises find.




by Esther M. Clark
Artist Jill Barklem

Summer was made for the wandering heart,
The changing beauty and wonderment
In the long, gray stretches of open road
With only the sky for a wayside tent.
Meadowlarks singing beyond the hedge,
Grass with the shimmer of dew still wet;
A noon day rest by the water’s edge
Summer was marvelous sweet; and yet:

November days and a bright wood fire;
A hearth and a home and the Heart’s Desire.

Summer was kind to the wayfaring one,
Luring and beckoning, on and on,
Through new and untraveled, unweary ways
From dawn till night and from night till dawn.
Orchard and field in a veil of rain,
Blossoming beauty on every bough;
What more could the heart of a man contain?
Summer was wondrously kind; but now:

November nights and the open fire;
A hearth and a home and the Heart’s Desire.