THERE isn’t a tree to be seen fra’ wheer I am writin’,
There isn’t a beck to be heard or sang of a bird,
There isn’t nowt here but sand-hills-blasted, sun scorched sand-hills-
An’ rocky ridge ayont ridges; I gie thee my word!
Dear Luve, if I shut mine eyes I can follow a high road
Twistin’ an’ turnin’ through meadow an’ plough an’ intake;
If I close mine ears to t’ rabblement all around me,
I can hear-varra far off-beck-watters meetin’ a lake.
I know ‘at our bairns will be helpin’, like all that to bring in
T’ harvest; these dree days even our youngest mun wark-
But they’ll rest under trees, unmindful of bonnie watters;
Unheedin’-like I did-those heartenin’ notes of a lark.
(Dorothy Una Ratcliffe)
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Based on Topics: Nature Poems, Birds PoemsBased on Keywords: frà, unmindful, bairns, writin, meetin, intake, turnin, ayont, wheer, dree, wark