Pastoral for the Midlands ** Options

[anaisa]

I tweaked it in a few places, hopefully for the better. I actually like some "ing" words so I left a few.
Thanks everyone for the feedback and help with this.

Pastoral for the Midlands

The heart-shaped linden leaves have netted veins,
That web into a rib along the center;
Their blades are broad with scalloped edges, catching
October’s sun, as filmy light rays enter

Between long layered branches. By the Severn,
We walk the well-worn, narrow bridleways.
Our trail is trimmed in sedges, maples drop
Their dappled leaves in paper-thin arrays,

To fan the feet of ancient brambles. Roots
Rise from a hidden ditch; the sun burns off
Earth’s rim of mist; a patch of peacock blue
Appears above a whitewashed mill. Clouds doff

In salutation to the sky. The bleats
Of farmland sheep float through the country air.
A passing steam train lets its whistle out
As we rest by the waters of the weir.

This place is far from what I’m used to. Thick
With large leaved limes and sycamores . . . My home
Is desert mounds and dull mesquite; stretched suns
Lay ribbons dipped in scarlet strands that comb

Through warm horizons. But lush emerald hues,
Medieval bridges, plenitudes of calm—
No sand dune is superior to these.
The blends of meadow-breeze, the water’s balm,

Brushstrokes of nature, delicate as sorrel,
Create a mental mural for my mind.
And there I find the time to pause, reflect,
When harshness of the desert seems unkind.













Pastoral for the Midlands

The heart-shaped linden leaves have netted veins,
Extending from their midrib in the center;
Their blades are broad with scalloped edges, catching
October’s sun, as filmy light rays enter

Between long layered branches. By the Severn,
We walk the well-worn, narrow bridleways.
Our trail is trimmed in sedges, maples drop
Their dappled leaves in paper-thin arrays,

To fan the feet of ancient brambles. Roots
Rise from a hidden ditch; the sun burns off
Earth’s rim of mist; a patch of peacock blue
Appears above a whitewashed mill. Clouds doff

Their salutations to the sky. The bleats
Of farmland sheep float through the country air.
A passing steam train lets its whistle out
As we rest by the waters of the weir.

This place is far from what I’m used to. Thick
With large leaved limes and sycamores . . . My home
Is scorching desert and mesquite; stretched suns
Lay ribbons dipped in scarlet strands that comb

Through warm horizons. But lush emerald hues,
Medieval bridges, plenitudes of calm—
No sand dune is superior to these.
The blends of meadow-breeze, the water’s balm,

Brushstrokes of nature, delicate as sorrel,
Create a mental mural for my mind.
And there I find the time to pause, reflect,
When harshness of the desert seems unkind.

[Larry]

Hi Karen,

I enjoyed reading through your post numerous times and the suggestions from others. I'm not sure if you want
a full editorial critique or merely tweaks here and there so I will just start with a few comments and wait to hear
back from you.

Firstly, is your Pastoral intended to be a Ballad in iambic pentameter?

Next, my main "pet peeve" is the capitalization of each line. This was fine when the typesetters centuries ago
found it easier to utilize the large carved wooden capital letters than the more difficult small ones when preparing to print.
That is no longer the case and besides, you use a lot of enjambment in your piece and I find it breaks the thought
process when going to the next line.

As far as gerunds are concerned, I found four in your entire piece and you might replace one or two with more
descriptive adjectives.

You do paint a beautiful picture and from the looks of it you won't have to do a lot to polish it into a gem.

Larry