The following is a poem by one of members, Moira Clacher, who has kindly allowed us to reproduce it on our site for your enjoyment!
Cold, foggy morning, yet frost early.
No scenic views of fields, hedges or hill.
But later, sunshine, dog basks in warmth on windowsill.
Happy smiles, anticipation, be not surly.
Outdoors by midmorning, seated, cane seat
Compare, youthful days, be in school, dressed neat.
Older, poets, artists, retired, hobby minded
Be out there, outdoors, inherited seats, reminded.
Always recall the toil and the giving by others, now enjoy
Gardens of memories, children, pets, people visiting.
March morning, birds singing, sun warm, dewdrops glisten.
Passing through the village scene, buses, vehicles, trailers, listen.
Beyond the tranquil garden boundaries, sheep, lambs bleat.
Spring flowers bloom, daffodils, narcissus, Christmas Roses.
The many creams, chocolate, pinks of the Hellebores.
Delighting eyes, white heather, pink and polyanthus
Gratitude for cane seat, sit beside the Kilmarnock budded tree.
Rhubarb growth, vegetable patch as yet undug
Greenhouse warmth nourishes transplants, yonder by the trug.
Recall wind and storms, twiglets yet lie upon the grass.
Poetry in motion, retiring by the midnight hour, poets, artists and ass.
Remember then the toil on acres, over decades, compared to garden small.
Yet, home and garden, songs and sadness matter, clematis clads the garden wall.
Each family member, own thoughts, toiled here or there, input.
Grew corn on the cob, sunflowers, leeks or climbed upon the garden chute.
March morning, outdoors for poetry inspiration,
Clumps of Hellebores, tall graceful daffodils, starkness of bare beeches
One hour, Spring, March morning, sun, fickle breezes.
Conifers bear tiny red flowerings on their branches.
Calmly the burn ripples beyond the trees,
Tiptoeing, behind walls and banking, to the seas.
Just be there, experience wind and sunshine.
Cascades of pink and green, tiny cones, conifers give background life.
Poetic words, retire, be in park or garden, white clouds, fluff.
Recall the Robin Redbreast, perched in prickly, red, thorny bush,
Paused to see the little bird, what is life if always in a rush?
Pale blue sky, birdsong, postman calls, March morning, smooth, not rough.
Original Verse composed this morning in “Kintyre” Garden, Pitscottie by Moira Clacher.