Thomas Vaughan Jones, Nature Poet

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A Choral Bouquet from an English Garden

Tales From a Passing Cloud

Harbingers

Oh! To Be in April!

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A Choral Bouquet
from an English Garden

The humming of the bumble bee
Provides a perfect harmony
Pulsating in the fragrant air
With perfumed flowers everywhere.

Resplendent is the red, red rose
In carmined, multi-floral pose
Each budding tenor giving tongue
To hold the rhythm of the song

The hollyhocks and fuschias fill
The treble and sopranos' trill
Each bell created every year
To ring in chorus, crystal clear.

Begonias themselves appoint
A bass profundo counterpoint
While red hot pokers, breathing fire
Co-ordinate our floral choir.

But through the music can be found
One perfect, honeyed, solo sound
One note which makes the heart rejoice --
The violet's soft, melodic voice.

© Copyright 2001 Thomas Vaughan Jones

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Tales From a Passing Cloud

I see you all from here!
Tiny ants, scurrying around
in a chaos of your own creation.
Each one too busy
for the beauty
in the world.

I see great mountains,
wearing snow hats,
tipped to greet
their friend the sky.

Deep oceans,
dressed in green,
garnished with silver
shoaling fish, and
rippling waves,
like horses running home.

I see Mother Earth
who binds us fast
in a whirl
of fields and forests.

But you, little ants,
tear down forests
and pollute seas.
The sky is darkened
and the stars dim
to your touch.

While we, the clouds,
created to refresh the
world, pass by,
shedding our tears
in a scalding cascade
of bitter rain.

© Copyright 2001 Thomas Vaughan Jones

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Harbingers

The sun shines down, the morning's fair,
Till clouds come scudding by.
A whisper in the morning air,
A darkening in the sky.

The trees dance low and bow their heads
In supplicating plea,
The cattle take defensive stance
And bend the humble knee.

The wind beats air waves in the grass
And sweeps the dust in town,
The rain draws patterns on the glass
And cuts the flowers down.

Now lightning flash and thunderous roar
Brings terror from the skies,
As Nature opens wide her maw
In demonic disguise.

The skies are black as darkest night,
While demons ride the gale.
Each flashing roar brings endless fright
And hearts and courage fail.

The storm is raging overhead,
While hurling Nature's blast.
And trembling creatures lie abed
Until the rage is past.

© Copyright 2000 Thomas Vaughan Jones

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Oh! To Be in April!

(in England, that is)

You can always tell it's April
By the sound of falling rain
That mystic, mournful music
As it trickles down the drain.

We're told we should be thankful
For the kiss of April showers
As it washes all the grass clean
And prepares the soil for flowers.

There's another side to April
Which doesn't bode us good,
When that mini, manic maelstrom
Turns the lawn to liquid mud.

When mice hide under hedges
And hedgehogs take to ground,
The birds are wet and hungry,
The worms have all been drowned.

Within a week, or maybe two,
A million latent seeds
Will germinate and procreate,
To fill the world with weeds.

Then while I'm fighting anarchy,
Armed with my trusty hoe.
Behind me, surreptitiously,
The grass begins to grow.

I ease my taut and breaking back
And nurse my aching bones.
I think I'll call the builders in
To lay some paving stones.

I'll build a concrete jungle
Where I can sit for hours,
Snug in a concrete garden shed
Secure from April Showers.

A mournfully melancholic gardener.

© Copyright 2001 Thomas Vaughan Jones

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