15 January, 2025
I am at the Barn. My great nieces call in to see me, late afternoon. My sister had collected them from school. One of my nieces has always been interested in writing poetry. It was a very atmospheric afternoon with the mist coming down. We sat in front of the downstairs picture window in the barn, so we had the same view at the same time, and wrote our poems…
This is my poem:
Western View through Barn Window
Cold January afternoon
towards close of day.
Bright chaffinch flies onto fence
mown green grass by sheep beyond.
Distant silhouettes of winter trees
fading into the mist,
pattern of branches against grey sky
soon to disappear.
Grandma arrives calling
children for tea, gymnastics.
Father impatient to go
sounds horn of car.
All is silent again.
Little dog relaxes once more and sleeps.
Outside a thick mist has
covered the trees.
No one would know they are there.
The grass colour fades,
the dark fence remains.
And here is my niece’s poem:
I look up.
I look at the birds
the trees and the view.
I look at the beautiful oak tree,
the old gate
and multicolour stones.
And I see a beautiful
World
I thought my niece’s poem was such a contrast to mine—a young child’s view of the world beyond the weather outside.
—Rosemary Boaz