Watching the season’s come and go.
Tiny bulbs in the earth below,
From Surrey’s meadow, we did grow.
Our destiny we did not know.
Summer plucked us from the ground,
And exiled us – for a measly pound!
Farmer Trumps made no sound!
For mother’s hot pot we were bound…
I like to think I'm a story teller. I love stories. I believe the world is filled with stories just waiting to be told and learned. I enjoy travelling down the road less travelled, with my iPhone and journal in each hand. Here you'll find all my poetic musings... Enjoy!
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