The sound of the morning, the song of the thrush
And the wind in the poppies that cover the lea.
The breeze sings its songs of the surf on the strand
And the tang on the tongue is the salt from the sea.
In the quiet of morning it called you away
Though you said that your dream would not keep up apart.
The wind from the ocean is cold as my bed
And howls in the hollow where you plucked my heart.
The colours of morning the greens and the gold
The white of the blossom that hung on the tree
And the blood red of petals, scattered and spoiled
By the salt-tangy breeze that blows in from the sea.
Jane Dougherty Writes 
Lovely and what a beautiful photo.
Thank you Carol. It is a lovely picture.
Beautiful, but I’d have liked it if you’d just written the word Poppy too.
xxx Huge Hugs xxx
Field poppies are gorgeous, aren’t they?
A lovely piece Jane.
Thank you, Laurie.
Yes it really is lovely. I almost felt as if I was there. I love moments like these
Thanks, Peter. Sometimes you have to cut yourself off from the general buzz to feel it, but it’s always there, if you look and listen hard enough.