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.