poems by the late margaret dale

      Part 1

With books and magazines to read,

and quizzes by the score,

The Easter card and new  laid eggs,

Dropped quietly by the door.

The secret of the bag of flour,

Which came from who knows who,

Inspired a passion for some cakes,

To help the shortage through.

The lap-top was in use each day,

With e-mails to our friends,

Equipment, so now part of life,

And on which we all depend.

Drawing, poems, and Bob Ross,

With his paintings of delight,

Birthdays, fun days, special days...

And a web-site to excite.

Sunday's walk into the Church,

With the service for today,

The hymns, the prayers the sermon,

In our homes the words display.

Many things to be thankful for,

So many things have changed.

Is 'normal' going to be the word,

In a world that's rearranged.

Part 2  

After stages of lockdown are over,

The resumption of life is tried out.

How do our thoughts and reflections,

Cope with the present day doubts.

Doubts there will be for our safety,

So hugging will surely be slow,

Were my hands clean in food preparation,

When handing food over to you?

What about doubts for the future,

Do we listen to people who know,?

Will there be disagreement and conflict,

Or debate and tolerance shown?

It is our chance to make a new start now,

With depravity, oppression no more.

Everyone must have a fair share of life,

With faith, forgiveness and LOVE.

Going forward, and yet still recalling,

The trauma witnessed each day,

And hearing of horror and sadness,

With the total of deaths on display.

We must never lose sight of the nurses,

The supreme dedication they gave,

Let's continue to clap on a Thursday,

For the tired, exhausted and brave. 

  A pad, a pencil and an hour to spare, with ample time to stand and stare

Is all I need on a sunny day, to ride my bike and get away.

Pebbles crunch beneath each tread, as country opens up ahead.

Breezes blowing through my hair; destination, I know not where.

Tall dark trees come into view. Beneath the trees, a mist of blue,

An ancient bridge, a rusty gate, from which I feel I could create

A drawing of this lovely scene… a glimpse, a memory of where I’ve been.

As autumn drifts across the view, the palette changes from summer hue.

Leaves lie crisp beneath my wheels and cool air on my face reveals

The onset of a changing scene, a glimpse, a memory of where I’ve been.

A pad, a pencil and an hour to spare is ample time to stand and stare.

It’s too late now, this frosty day, with brush and palette stashed away.

I snuggle ‘neath my woolly scarf and steer my bike along the path.

Another sketch, another scene, a glimpse, a memory of where I’ve been.

I'd like to pray,

What do I say? 

My head is full of words.

Will God be there,

To hear my prayer,

And will he understand?

I'm new to this,

So must not miss,

The important things to say,

Like, help me please,

While on my knees,

And should I start with ME

I like myself,

So is it wrong?

I'm happy to be me.

I hope I'm good

Cos I know I should,

But with doubts there's going to be.

It's 'thank you' next,

That I am blessed,

With so many happy things,

My Mom and Dad,

The love I've had,

And my loyal trusting friends.

I hear each day,

And fear dismay,

Please God, this prayer is special.

So many poor,

Live through a war,

Only PEACE can now protect them.

"GOD, how did I do?

When I spoke to you,

I hope I've made a start.

So, do you mind,

Cos now I find,

My knees are beginning to hurt".

Butterflies by Margaret Dale

Butterflies
What is more wonderful than a Peacock's wings,
Nature has patterned them with colourful rings.
The Painted Lady in her autumn hue,
Competes with the rarer Holly Blue.
When the Tortoiseshells take flight,
The purple Buddleia is where they alight.
And bask and feed on its richest fare,
Then flitter off to who knows where!

HOWITWAS

I am starting to learn the rudiments of life,

A stay-at-home, married and a proud housewife.

What speciality shall I cook today for tea?

My Mrs. Beeton's cookbook will have a recipe.

Tradition demands the husband is the head,

His slippers always warming and freshly baked bread.

A carefully tided drawer of sweetly ironed socks,

But he never held a teacloth to wipe up any crocks!

 Mother was a maker of redesigned head gear,
A trainee Milliner, from her fourteenth year.

Her table piled high, to recapture lost endeavours,

With flowers, ribbon, chiffon and some gorgeous coloured feathers.

Her many friends and family, had new hats made from old,

And if a new style needed, it was stretched upon a mould.

The needle and the cotton, she sewed with hands so nimble,

But as part of protection, she always wore a thimble.

My Mother had a sister, who came to stay each year,

Her London home and bombing, gave Auntie much to fear.

The London train arrived on time and passengers alighted,

Delight at seeing her again, made everyone excited.

Not for long did pleasure reign, the nearer she became......

Mother's response was "Good God.....the same OLD HAT again".

That old brown straw with hat-pin, holding it in place,

Had a bunch of dusty cherries above her smiling face.

 (a true story)

Hidden away in the old wooden shed,

Brushed away earwigs, unfolded at last.

Almost forgotten this worn plastic sun-bed,

A memory of my youthful past.

My new-found friend had a grand affair,

She lay on her bed with great serene.

There was no suggestion it had a small tare,

In the plumped up cushions of crimson and green.

We had some scones and I made a drink,

We ate some fruit with luscious cream,

Suddenly, water came over the brink,

From bursting cushions of crimson and green.

Of course, she was wet and headed for home,

Scarcely believing this chaotic scene.

The water-bed leaked with a squishy groan,

And drenched the cushions of crimson and green.

My old plastic sun-bed I folded with pride,

It was washed now and beautifully clean,

No longer forgotten and never to hide,

From audacious plump cushions in crimson and green.

MY ANGEL by Margaret Dale

I know you're there, my little friend,

To hear my thoughts and try to mend....

Anxieties circling in my brain,

And giving guidance to maintain...

The joy of living in later years,

Discarding all my inner fears.

Sweet Peas by Margaret Dale

Angel-wing petals from a pastel palette,
Caressed by the breeze on slender stems,
Fragrance expelled on the warm summer air,
As tendrils hold these delicate gems.


Sunflowers by Margaret Dale
Oh, magnificent flower on your sturdy stem,
Your brilliance and beauty a joy to behold.
You are sunshine on the dullest day,
Richly painted in Cadmium gold.

I feel I need to count my blessings,

For the windows in my room.

Imagine life without possessing

A view to cheer the gloom.

How we've progressed from olden times,

Of obscure and tiny panes,

Frosted windows during winter climes,

Till the season's cold spell wanes.

The welcome sun, a joy to see,

As it shines through double glaze

The door of Spring has turned the key

For some warm and sunny days.

Windows are an answered prayer,

At these stressful unique times,

A quiet outlook, but with few to share,

A view to enrich our dreams.

With more time to observe this space,

From the confines of my room,

The changing scenes of growth take place,

And summer flowers begin to bloom.

On the wooded hillside, my foundation stone was laid,

And craftsmen created my shape with skill and loving care.

The seasoned timber made my body firm and strong,

And my spire reached up into the larch-scented air.

Since eighteen seventy nine, I have watched the seasons change,

And have remained steadfast throughout the ensuing years.

Many generations have come to know me,

And I have felt happiness, but witnessed grief and tears.

This peaceful place in which departed loved ones lie,

Mid golden daffodils and branches swaying in the breeze,

Is not a place of sadness for too long,

But a garden, in which to wander and reflect at ease.

Why not turn the handle of my door and step inside;

Bask in the tranquility and peace within my house;

See the sun shine through coloured facets in my walls,

And feel uplifted as you kneel before the cross.

The Mill had stood for many years

Beside the river Tame

The livelihood of many folks

'till the demolition came.

Tall trees lined the carriage-way

Where crows had made their nest

But they were in the way, of course,

And felled like all the rest.

And now we have a smart estate,

Where the factory used to stand,

And building was completed,

When they'd used up  all the land.

Life evolves, and memories fade,

And new trees quietly grow;

From the new constructed walkway,

One can watch the river flow.

The fields across the landscape,

Where the sheep and cattle graze,

Stretch out as far as Hopwas,

Disappearing in a haze.

With sympathetic planning,

And an effort to conserve,

We can still enjoy the country,

In the way we all deserve.

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep and cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue,

And balm, and mint, with curl'd-leaf parsley grew,

And double marigolds, and silver thyme,

And pumpkins 'neath the window climb;

And where I often, when a child, for hours

Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,

As lady's laces, everlasting peas,

True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease,

And golden rods, and tansy running high,

That o'er the pale-tops smiled on passers-by.

More to follow soon. If you have any favourite poems you would like us to publish, drop us a line.

More to follow soon. If you have any favourite poems you would like us to publish, drop us a line.

More to follow soon. If you have any favourite poems you would like us to publish, drop us a line.

More to follow soon. If you have any favourite poems you would like us to publish, drop us a line.