The Broth

The Broth, the deadly winds that howl,
And reaps a many thing so foul,
Misty, thick and foggy Breeze,
Seasoned with the salt of seas,
Carries with it snow and sleet,
And blows and beats the north of East.
So bitter wind it sting the bones,
Stealing breathes and nipping nose,
The broth is not a hearty meal,
But a wind so cold and hard as steel.

This is my B poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within.

A broth is a kind of soup, made up of peas barley and lentils with a whole load of veg in it. Often ate on New Years Eve, and on cold days. The weather up in Northumberland has been so bad lately, this is where the idea of the Broth wind has come from. A wind so thick and foggy, almost like a soup.

My poems kind of lead onto one another so I do suggest you read the poem before it to get the gist.

The Braves

Standing just at one foot tall,
Guarding keeps and castle walls,
The tribe of which the moat is hold,
Are littles like the garden gnome.
With spears in hand, align in rows,
Await to stab intruders toes.
These tiny brave, soldiered men,
As old as which what they defend,
The wars have gone a battle ghost,
But still the braves defend their post.
Their joints they’ve seized and turned t’ stone,
Til a day may come to fight for home.

This is my B poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within.
The idea of The Braves came to me when I was writing The Untold Stories of Scotland and it never came to anything until now. The idea is a small army so old they have turned to stone, or gnomes. We have alot of castles up in Northumberland, and even more Braves.

My poems kind of lead onto one another so I do suggest you read the poem before it to get the gist.

The Toll of the Bluebells

B is for… Bluebells

In the outdoor hidden wilderness,
There lies a brambled hall,
Where the acoustics set to perfect,
And the canopy grows quite tall.

For there in almost unison,
The bluebells chime their song.
natures grounded orchestra,
Tinkle all day long.

As the breeze it strokes their petals,
They whistle like a flute,
A humble winded instrument,
Sound quivers to the root.

The leaves they form percussion,
the rain it drums the beat,
Forming steady rhythm,
The bass round and deep.

A thousand strumming stems play,
Like a harp or string quartet,
The melody of the bluebell,
A woodland soundtrack set.

No Mozart, or Debussy,
Could write a comparing tune,
As the bluebells take their encore,
And bow their heads in bloom.

Inspired by the blog Thoughts from the outdoors! 🙂
This poem is for B of the A to Z challenge