Jenny’s father was Leslie Williamson, an accomplished author and poet. His published novels include Jobey, Bread for All, The Crowded Cemetery and Death of a Portrait. He won many prestigious awards for poetry including the Richard Burton poetry award and had many poems published. He was also an expert on Byron and D H Lawrence, and wrote several plays and other works about these two Nottinghamshire literary giants.
He grew up in what is now a bygone age - his great-great-grandson will be born at Christmas 2011. Many of his poems are very touching and deal with the passage of time and treasuring life. In the hope of giving some words of comfort, Jenny shares with you here some of her father’s poems. All copyright is reserved but you may print these poems out for your own use if you wish.
He grew up in what is now a bygone age -
CALL ME
If you would seek me when I’m gone
Then listen in the quiet of your day
Listen with hunger in your ears,
Beyond the silence
I am there.
Still tethered to the need we had
Call me.
I am strength to your arm
When there’s nobody there
Silence to the squeak from that spooky old stair
A calm that settles; when things have gone wrong
A steadying voice still attuned to your ear
We cannot exchange the longed-
But deep in the place where mind touches mind
Are the names that we carved on the walls of time.
We had no chance for a final good-
Built up by living, needing forgiving.
But call me
I’ll be there.
© Leslie Williamson
www.jennycross.com
YESTERDAY
Gone away is the promise of April
pugnacious breeze and soft warm rain
apple blossom full of bees
thick with cream, pink champagne.
And there we were in gentle May
wedding faces, brides in white
meeting family, friendly smiles
roguish uncles, whisky bright.
In Summer you were rosy June
heady, scented, tender days
when hand in hand we found delight
in nothing more than nature’s ways.
The thrill you brought to Autumn
spoke without a word
see swallows fly and geese honk by
our love was high as any bird.
Then Winter and the frosted night
we woke and cuddled extra tight
for memories are the way we live
ours to make – ours to give.
Gone away is the promise of April
pugnacious breeze and soft warm rain
apple blossom full of bees
thick with cream, pink champagne.
And there we were in gentle May
wedding faces, brides in white
meeting family, friendly smiles
roguish uncles, whisky bright.
In Summer you were rosy June
heady, scented, tender days
when hand in hand we found delight
in nothing more than nature’s ways.
The thrill you brought to Autumn
spoke without a word
see swallows fly and geese honk by
our love was high as any bird.
Then Winter and the frosted night
we woke and cuddled extra tight
for memories are the way we live
ours to make – ours to give.
© Leslie Williamson
www.jennycross.com
KNOWING ABOUT LOVE
A good life has come to an end
but the world is busy.
A few however, who know about love,
will search for the impossible words;
but words are all we have
that and a reaching out for a hand
that is no longer there.
And so the inevitable price of having loved
and being loved, must be paid.
But love doesn’t stop with a heartbeat,
it is deeper, much deeper than that.
It lives on – while memory lasts
a parting gift from mind to mind.
We keep it with us,
pass it on to the unknown tomorrow.
But true love is not for ‘Tomorrow’
it is for now – and for all time.
© Leslie Williamson
www.jennycross.com
DREAM TIME
Rooted deep in my childhood dreams
is a village I called my own
where sticklebacks gleamed in friendly streams
and fourteen pounds weighed a stone
and, would you believe, no mobile phone.
Morning mushrooms in the grass
apple pie and rabbit stew
sunshine pulling at my sleeve
birdsong hung on morning dew.
Farmers produce at the church
scrubbed clean at the vicar’s feet
a ‘Fire-escape’ from a very real hell
saving their souls with barley and wheat.
And daily the gobbling geese were seen
while magpies sparred with the vicarage crows
and ducks on the pond were part of the scene
and the poacher’s pocket was still in vogue.
And yes, there was honey still for tea
if you knew where to go and who to see
and the plod-foot cows knew their way back home
and Grandad’s name was chiselled in stone
on the cenotaph at the village green.
These are dreams of a place that didn’t survive
oooh – but wasn’t it good just being alive.
KNOWING ABOUT LOVE
A good life has come to an end
but the world is busy.
A few however, who know about love,
will search for the impossible words;
but words are all we have
that and a reaching out for a hand
that is no longer there.
And so the inevitable price of having loved
and being loved, must be paid.
But love doesn’t stop with a heartbeat,
it is deeper, much deeper than that.
It lives on – while memory lasts
a parting gift from mind to mind.
We keep it with us,
pass it on to the unknown tomorrow.
But true love is not for ‘Tomorrow’
it is for now – and for all time.
© Leslie Williamson
www.jennycross.com
DREAM TIME
Rooted deep in my childhood dreams
is a village I called my own
where sticklebacks gleamed in friendly streams
and fourteen pounds weighed a stone
and, would you believe, no mobile phone.
Morning mushrooms in the grass
apple pie and rabbit stew
sunshine pulling at my sleeve
birdsong hung on morning dew.
Farmers produce at the church
scrubbed clean at the vicar’s feet
a ‘Fire-
And daily the gobbling geese were seen
while magpies sparred with the vicarage crows
and ducks on the pond were part of the scene
and the poacher’s pocket was still in vogue.
And yes, there was honey still for tea
if you knew where to go and who to see
and the plod-
on the cenotaph at the village green.
These are dreams of a place that didn’t survive
oooh – but wasn’t it good just being alive.
© Leslie Williamson
www.jennycross.com.