STONEHENGE POEM 7

A glum day clouded over and grey, we master ourselves and get back to work.

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The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.” Kenneth Grahame

The Place Where We Are

Comfort me for I am weary to the bone,

It is to you I turn for you know me alone,

The place where we are we call our home,

It is from here that we venture to roam.

Away from this place we toil and strive,

It is this habitual work by which we live,

You are the guide whom we work beside,

The place where we are is where we forgive.

At times we falter and you must act as a bridge,

A structure we can be steadied there aloft,

You must be patient for this is what you give,

A rock beneath us when the times are tough.

It is this way that you show your love,

This is much the same as that from God above,

It is also true that you are my very best friend,

So our fondness twixt us two will never end.

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you.” A.A. Milne