THE PATH TO THE PLOUGH

MERHABA MY FRIENDS

The lashing rain never stopped
for days on end. The skies over
the land are black and swirling,
as the wild winter winds blow.

As i trod this path to the tiny
Hamlet of Haswell Plough, my
mind wanders to warm days
when the sun shines on a
summers day, and the birds
sing and the frogs croak as they
hop about the stream.

But the rain still lashes down
until the land can take no more
and spits it back out and the path
and stream become as one, i trudge
on ankle deep towards the Plough.

In the summertime there are wild
berries to be picked and taken home
to be baked in a crusty pie and washed
down with a jug of ale or two, as we sit
about the open fire singing and laughing.

This land, the land of the `Lionheart`, Richard
by name, King by birth, a tale or two i could
tell about our Lord and Master.
That`s for another time, as i wonder along
the path to the Plough, in the falling rain,
for now i`ll ponder on open fires, wild berry
pie and a jug of ale.

(Turkstory)

TURK ;D

A HUGE, HUGE THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR `WORDS`
ON MY 500TH BLIP...AMAZING PEOPLE YOU ALL ARE.

I WAS GONNA BLIP SKYE AGAIN AS A THANK YOU, HE WAS
NOT GONNA BE BLIPPED TODAY. HE RECONS HE DESERVES
A `BAFTA AWARD` FOR SERVICES RENDERED. PREFERABLY THE
EDIBLE KIND.....I`LL GIVE HIM AN EXTRA PIECE OF BERRY PIE :)