Saturday, 3 November 2018

One hundred years on. Life is Precious.

I'm growing old, but as a young man, you died.
Each November the eleventh, I wear a poppy, with pride.
For I can still see the moon, golden sunshine and showers.
Whilst you never survived, to spend precious hours.

Future plans were denied you, didn't see your children play.
You never woke to their giggles, at the break of each day.
See them jump on a swing,  blow bubbles in the air - or do all the mad things that only kids dare!

You missed all the trials of seeing them grow, the excitement of Christmas -  their first pantomime show.
Opening small presents, with joy in their eyes.
Unaware of their mother, softly stifling her cries.

She wept for her soldier, who didn't return,  that pain in her heart would continually burn.
A wedding ring to cherish, a photo or two.
She kept his memory, for her children, it's all she could do.

So when I look back at my life, the good and the bad.
I'm thankful I survived, though sometimes feel sad.
For a hundred years have pased, since your great sacrifice.
But we still have not learned, how precious is LIFE.

Ann Wilson  November 3rd 2018.

Wednesday, 3 October 2018


A farewell from the Summer.
as Autumn takes the stage.
Pretty blooms are fading fast,
spent annuals start to age.

A prelude to the Winter,
pleasant breeze before the chill.
With colours ever changing,
Autumn's promise will fulfil.

Late asters in their element,
vibrant dahlias, grasses tall;
adding beauty to the garden
as the gilded leaves now fall.

I watch them softly shedding
as they greet the waiting earth.
Knowing nature will recycle.
Nature is rebirth.

Sunday, 23 September 2018


Cool and crisp is the air today,
Autumnal aromas on the breeze.
Shrubs of evergreen, all blending
with gold-flecked broad-leaf trees.

Berry-bright brown hedgerows,
a precious feast for birds to share.
Apples waiting to be harvested,
so tempting hanging there.

Cold spells will change the colours,
to Autumn glory unsurpassed.
Giving that display we love
and remember from the past.

Soon the grass will be a carpet
of russet, red and gold.
When trees shed lacy foliage,
as they have, since days of old.

Though this season brings sad memories
Of a painful time, so long ago.
I love the beauty that she brings
with her vibrant Autumn glow.

Thursday, 5 July 2018

To an Unknown Soldier.

A prose poem I'm working on about WW1. All comments welcome.

I couldn't feel the pain, hear the blasts, endure the bloodiness of it all, or see the mental scars that you carried while you still lived, as you witnessed friends and comrades dying around you.
Because I wasn't there.

I didn't see the carnage, feel the gas blister my lungs and scar my body.
I did not experience the sickening, never-ending mud, slowly rotting my feet in sodden boots, neither did I suffer that nauseating fear in my gut, or see those shells that showered around you.
Because I wasn't there.

I never saw the damage, the aftermath of that war.
The hardship of starting over - the poverty conflict creates.  The Spanish 'flu that killed more than the war itself.  The difficulty of carrying on or ever feeling normal again.
Because I wasn't there.

I only know the precious freedom,
we take for granted now -  at least in this country.  I hope we always have it .
Even though it all happened again, I thank you for your sacrifice in the Great War. Yes, the one that was supposed to end all wars.

This is why I wear my poppy with pride.

Because  YOU WERE there.



A short reflective poem.   Too personal to explain, but those who know me well will understand.

When I am no more, will you remember me?
Then will you recognize I loved you?  A truth you don't appear to see.
I hope that you will realize, I meant no harm or pain.
A perfect life was something I never could attain.

When I am no more, then will you shed a tear?
I will feel no anger, no harsh words will I hear.
Whatever I think now,  it won't matter anymore.
My heart's still waiting for you.

 I will keep an open door..

©   Ann Wilson   June 9th  2015

Friday, 29 June 2018

Reflections in the Night Garden.

A poem in progress.

I love the serenity of the dark, sensual night

An indigo sky - a full moon so bright

A myriad of stars twinkling up above,

Reminds me of the past and the angst of lost love.

One special love - I thought we'd never be parted - 

My world shattered in pieces
and left me broken hearted.

But time heals pain, a cliche, I know.

As the years roll on, you have to let it go.

Summer nights, in the garden, I reflect on it all.

Wondering why, it was so easy to fall.

But so obvious looking back,
with an amber moon above.

The night time allure
was ideal for young love.

Now I just admire the beauty of the night time display.

Happy to be here still,
I've come a long way.

Intoxicating scents from flowers all around.

Brushing past me in the darkness, moths barely make a sound.

The gentle colour changes, from a pretty solar light.

Fascinate them so, on their late evening flight.

In the dark trees above
I hear the rustling of the leaves.

It fires imagination, of the stories I might weave.

Such as witches on their broomsticks
With black cats by their side.

In the coolest, blackest sky
Their favoured territory -  they ride.

The night time garden never ceases to amaze.

A whole new world appears,
So very different from the days.

Saturday, 23 June 2018

Sentimental Summers.

This is a work in progress.

How I loved the Summer
Jewel-like flowers and lush green trees
A walk along the countryside
As I ambled at my ease.
Butterflies -  a- darting
From a myriad of flowers
How I loved to watch them all,
as I whiled away the hours.
Ripe strawberries with a tin of cream
Fresh apples, pears and plums
Delicious crumbles to be made.
All would satisfy our tums!
My favourite place is the garden,
at this special time of year
It reminds me of my father,
whose memory I hold dear
He grew so many vegetables
and lovely flowers by the score.
His dahlias and roses
are the plants I still adore.
With affection I remember,
Our rose garden at the side.
It's probably a driveway now,
Where once was Father's pride.
Then, summers seemed so magical
Playing out in meadows green.
Now houses stand in rows
And our childhood -  just a dream.