#NationalMeadowsDay poetry challenge. Have you written a poem about meadows? If inspired please join me, Lucy Furlong and David Hill in celebrating our countryside. This is a one off challenge. All poems will feature on my website. Artworks welcome too. DM me for my email address

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The flower meadows at RSPB OLd Moor

-Paul Brookes

Debbie Strange Prairie Meadow

“prairie meadow” – haiku, Frameless Sky 12, June 2020

the meadow
astir with blue skimmers
their wings
darning these placid days
into our histories

tanka published in Ripples in the Sand, Tanka Society of America Members’ Anthology 2016

=Debbie Strange

I Will Not See the Fields of My Childhood Again

Days rolling in unmown meadows,
lady’s smock, bedstraw and saxifrage

the tumbledown barn and ash
we climbed in – or fell out of

the gooseberry which grew
through an antique plough,

the nosy cows
who peered over our wall

tongues lolling and licking,
huge brown eyes

with too-long lashes,
begging you to love them

-Lauren M. Foster

LucyFurlong_OTF-Map-HR[84170]Lucy Furlong OTF_6AcreMeadow_walk2015_resize[84169]Lucy Furlong OTF_Ophelia_2014_resize[84168]

Six Acre Meadow

I

It was just ‘the field the other side of the second bridge’
which led to nowhere but, here, looking across the river,
you knew the manor house was there,
you could hardly see it through the trees then, maybe elms,
couldn’t see it when you went up by the church.

The old barn was on the right hand side below the church
at the bottom of the manor house land, ramshackle unromantic
surrounded by scrub but attractive for its intact hayloft
you climbed through a barbed wire fence, and climbed up
thrilled in successfully trespassing the forbidden space

Four of us got caught once by a man holding a shotgun.
We claimed to be from Worcester Park to throw them off the scent,
some of the other lads came up the hill, saw us being led away,
including Grenville Wiltshire- The Loudest Voice in Tolworth
“They’ve caught Nick, Roger…”

Took us up to the house and gave us stern warnings,
threatened us with the police.
His mother, we assumed, told us not to be cheeky
and eventually we were sent on our way
exhilarated- we’d got away with it.

II

It was just ‘the field the other side of the second bridge,’
somewhere we drifted to, ended up at, randomly,
not a destination, a ‘nothing’ space.
Once, the ice was thick enough across the field
to break out a chunk for a puck, hit with large sticks,
battering up and down playing impromptu ice hockey

Today the ice looks in broken panes,
jagged amongst freezing water and blades of grass,
welly-deep and no gloves you fish tiles out and squint
through them, delightedly, while around your feet
there is a frozen clatter chime of breaking sounds.
You want to take this glassy treasure home.

III

It was just ‘the field the other side of the second bridge’
but all the time this place had a name,
Six Acre Meadow,
the west bank of the Hogsmill,
at the end of the Manor House garden,
location of Millais’s painted Ophelia.

I walked along this bank one day with Gran and my sister,
the dark shaded banks after the second bridge,
always looking for that unseen space, that
place out of sight, always near, following her
as she looked for that unseen space, that
place out of sight, always near, immortalised.

-Lucy Furlong

David Hill Prose Poem

David Hill “celebrates the sensuous side of Hay Making”

1. To Burn Brash

Sat back barked.
Small insects crawl
down tree stretched above
inhabit hair
worn gloves
bruised brashed branches

Breathe wet peat,
damp soil, leaf decay,
autumn dead leaf dance,
spring bluebell wend
summer sacred stainglass
canopy sunshaft play
winter heavesnow clear paths

Sat back barked
canopy leaf horizon
floats shimmers

Calm

2. Our Wombwell Boxed

Lift small boxes wooden lid smell
broadleaved woodland
before rail/road
Press plastic button hear
Skylarks, Meadow Pipits, Woodpeckers,
before rail/road.

Press plastic button watch
Videowalk ancient Beech, Oak, Birch
before rail/road.

Electronic ringtone.

We would like to advise all visitors
The museum is closing soon.
Please exit through main door.
We hope you have enjoyed your visit.
Please come again.

-Paul Brookes

Bios and Links

Lucy Furlong

is a writer, poet and walking artist whose work has been published widely, exhibited nationally and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Her poetry map Amniotic City was featured in The Guardian and poetry from her Over the Fields map is taught as part of the Open University MA in Creative Writing. She is currently living in Wexford, Ireland. Follow her on twitter @lucyfurleapz

3 thoughts on “#NationalMeadowsDay poetry challenge. Have you written a poem about meadows? If inspired please join me, Lucy Furlong and David Hill in celebrating our countryside. This is a one off challenge. All poems will feature on my website. Artworks welcome too. DM me for my email address

  1. Pingback: #NationalMeadowsDay poetry challenge. Have you written a poem about meadows? If inspired please join me, Lucy Furlong and David Hill in celebrating our countryside. This is a one off challenge. All poems will feature on my website. Artworks welcome too. D

  2. Pingback: Poem: I Will Not See the Fields of My Childhood Again, on The Wombwell Rainbow #NationalMeadowsDay poetry challenge. | Outside the Door

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