This is the corner of Countrylovers.co.uk for contemporary poets who have written verse about the countryside,
rural life and natural history. If you would like to contribute your own piece, please get in touch via e-mail.

Every Shade of Green

Late autumn sees leaves falling,
Like a snowstorm to the ground,
Drifting and cavorting on the wind,
They make an eerie sound,
Lanes and paths blanketed,
With this years discarded wear,
Trees welcoming the coming winter,
Of foliage are stripped quite bare,
Like naked sentinels standing,
Through icy months of snow and rain,
Trying to resist the violent weather,
The boughs oft break through strain
Crashing down over exposed boughs,
To the wind have given way,
Ignominiously left where they fall,
To callously over the years decay,
Though the oldest trees will pay a price,
That some consider dire,
Springtime sees most don and show off,
They’re newly found attire,
So what goes around will come around,
For us to marvel at the scene,
A solitary sentinel or forest vast,
Canopied in every shade of green.

Copyright © 2005, Albert Vincent Weymouth

I Walked a path

I walked a path I’ve oft times trod
Bordered by fields all newly ploughed
Man and horse do endlessly plod
Perfection derived by shoulders bowed

Walking onward through a thicket small
With birds a singing in the boughs
Sitting a while I took in all
Passing minutes turned to hours

I slaked my thirst at a little rill
‘Twas as good as any Inn bought ale
Refreshed I climbed up one last hill
Sauntering down one last dale

Lengthening shadows closed down the day
Darkness fell for ‘twas getting late
With moon and stars to guide my way
I walked the path at a steady gait

Copyright © 2006, Albert Vincent Weymouth. All rights reserved.


by Chris Roe

Shafts of light
Through cathedral windows,
Dappled shade
Upon the leaves
Beneath my feet,
Bird song
In the branches above.

In the distance
Hind and fawn
Cross the forest track.
The sweet fragrance of autumn
Fills the misty air,
A gentle breeze
Moving colours
To forest floor.

So precious
Such beauty,
So hard to find
Such peaceful sanctuary.

Copyright © 2003, Chris Roe


To Dream Of Spring
by Chris Roe

Harvest is gathered,
Fields lay bare.
Already turned to the plough.
Pheasant and partridge
Lose their cover.
Grain piled high in the barn,
Straw stacked for winter use.

The evening breeze, sharper, cooler,
Colours dancing on the autumn wind,
Trees in winter silhouette,
An early morning frost,
A dusting of snow,
Cold, dark, winter evenings.

A glowing fire in the grate,
Another log brightens the flame
A warm drink,
A comfortable chair,
Time to rest,
To sleep,
To dream of spring.

Copyright © 2003, Chris Roe


by Chris Roe

Over the wooden gate,
Across the meadow
To the pond,
Surrounded by trees and bushes,
And weeds of all descriptions.

Then, across the bridge,
Made of old tree trunks
And dead branches,
Leading to the island.

From here we fished.
Hours of peace.
The silence disturbed
Only by a moorhen,
Or fish and line
Upon the surface of the pond,
Perhaps a swallow,
In the late evening sun,
Flying low across the water
Catching insects on the wing.

This was a secret place,
Away from the world,
A first glimpse of solitude,
So essential
For the journey to come.

Copyright © 2003, Chris Roe
I have always loved living and working within a rural community. Much of my working life has been spent in agriculture and more recently as a self-employed gardener. Through my poetry I endeavour to capture the spiritual peace and beauty of rural landscape, so precious and important to us all and which, since childhood, I have been so privileged to enjoy. - Chris Roe.

There's more poetry and artwork expressing the spiritual peace and romantic beauty of the rural landscape, by Norfolk brothers Chris and Paul Roe at Silent Flight Publications.

by Stan Walker

The flashing brilliance of pennant on breeze
the crashing of waves from heavy seas.
Arthurian minds invade my thoughts
with echoes of laughter from Arthurian courts.

Merry laughter from days of yore
heard in waves that crash upon shore.
Will you rise again Arthur from your hide
and will Guinevere be at your side?

Lancelot loved her, she left your halls.
Tintagel did weep and so crumbled the walls.
What now Arthur, does your love still lack
has your heart healed to take her back?

Oh Tintagel! such sorrow you hide.
Will Arthur take his Queen to his side?
The winds do howl and clouds scud by
Me thinks tis too late, as the sea gulls still cry.

Copyright © 2003, Stan Walker

Picture Of Heaven
by David Cannon

The sunshine enlightens my spirit,
Breaching the darkest corridors of the soul,
Generating a golden radiance that illuminates my every move,

The colored petals of cherry blossom cushion my footsteps,
And stimulate my senses with a scent of true splendor,
Laying a sheath of sweet aromatic silk that caresses the skin,

The gentle breeze whispers throughout the treetops,
And catches the falling blossom,
Creating a shower of pink that cascades like confetti,

The sound of birds in chorus break the silence,
And the gentle flowing water of the clear stream keeps rhythm,
Producing a song of nature which fills me with a sense of tranquility,

On the horizon snowcapped mountains warm in the residence of the sun,
Plunging waterfalls spray against the sandstone rocks,
Creating bands of colors that arch in its mist,

This is my picture of heaven,
A heaven on earth

Copyright © 2000, David Cannon


Clouds of Darkness
by David Cannon

Darkness has forsaken our world,
As clouds of death mask the sun,
The seared remains of a tree,
A victim of the poison teardrops,

The desolate land once the greenest of pastures,
Looks pale and inanimate,
As the turbines grind in the background,
And the pistons hiss like snakes,
I feel jaded and lifeless,

I am imprisoned in the filth that engulfs my breath,
Trapped in a place of grayness were life has

Copyright © 2000, David Cannon

I have always felt an affilation for the countryside, and enjoy rambling through the most beautiful areas of the United Kingdom.
I write poetry as a way of expressing how nature makes me feel when I am in its company. I have a burning ambition to some day become a wildlife ranger and contribute to saving the habitat of our wildlife, for there benefit and ours - Dave Cannon.
e-mail: kmlcannon@ic24.net.

by Nick Moyes

We came down off that hill in darkness, the three of us,
carrying our burdens upon our backs
and in our hearts.

We started out in joyous mood, that morning,
exalted by the day’s beginning;
by mountains to be climbed and miles walked,
called by sharp frosts and brilliant sun
to the very top of this world.
Our world. A world of naked rock,
of snow and calling ravens.
Our world. A world of gaily painted ropes,
of boots and clanking axes.
Our world. A world of white and black,
of welcome and betrayal.

And so it was we jouneyed upwards into this kingdom,
our lives connected by purpose and by rope,
each step freeing us from those cities in which we worked.

Upwards we journeyed,
at times moving together,
at times living alone.
Knowing we are watched,
we watched only for ourselves
and trusted in our fellows.
And below our feet, space, that infinity;
the valley floor so distant, yet always just a slip away.

A slip? What term is this?
A careless move, a moments inattention?
One slip
and this welcome world turns traitor to invaders.

And so it happened when least expected.
One man, content in his existence and his challenge,
knowing he was safe, was unsafe.
A slip? Who can say?
Who amongst us can say what happened
or comprehend the fact that one of us is dead?
A slip indeed, held at last by rope
but with life’s thread already broken.

We came down off that hill in darkness, the three of us,
carrying our burdens upon our backs
and in our hearts.

These words are dedicated to Steve Caswell who died in the shadow of Mont Blanc long after these words were written. But he loved Scotland, and I always think of him and those gullies of snow and ice high above Glencoe whenever I read this - NM

Copyright © 1987 Nick Moyes


by Nick Moyes

Bleak northern moors of heathered grit,
sheer edge of climber's play;
green barren land of woven wall
and dale of Limestone Way.

In lowland south lies farm and wood
on rolling, marl-rich ground;
where rivers flow by valley side
are town and city found.

On eastern flank black coal is hid,
layered in shale and sand;
that dirty jewel of modern times,
hewn out by human hand.

Much quarried once, and still today,
for stones hard won and fought,
rock-wrenching mines of industry
this county's treasure sought.

Grey lime, dark grit and basalt black,
red marl and pebbled land;
all make these scenes of Derbyshire,
slow-carved by Nature's hand.

Copyright © 1989 Nick Moyes

Nick Moyes works as Assistant Keeper of Natural History and Records at Derby Museum & Art Gallery. and runs the Derbyshire Biological Records Centre. A keen lover of the countryside, his interests include botany, zoology, rock and ice climbing, photography, computing and pottery. It used to include travel, but he's about to have his first baby. You can contact him at nick@nmoyes.freeserve.co.uk, or visit his work website on www.dbrc.freeserve.co.uk

The Poachers
by Paddy Hughes

Ragged, stubbly men
stained with outdoor colours.

Gaggle of granite dogs
aswirl with killer power.

A timeless team
except for
the refrigerated truck
on the other side
of the wall.

World Copyrights Reserved
© 1987 Paddy Hughes

Specks of Sound
by Paddy Hughes

The syrup of a summer dusk
leaves specks of darkened sound
hanging in the jar of settling day,
noises that needle
from the grey of No-Mans Land
below the champagne moon,
the snap of dessicated bracken,
flap of an oak perched owl,
rap of the back foot
of a rabbit.

World Copyrights Reserved
© 1989 Paddy Hughes
Paddy has recently released a wonderful audio CD of his poems about Richmond Park - one of the passions in his life - which capture the atmosphere and moods of this great park. We also have an on-line biography for Paddy.


Copyright © 1999-2011