Ian is a longstanding class member of several years. He also part of an email group that produces work online, some of which has been published.
The first poem is a Haiku which is a Japanese style of poetry where each verse has seventeen syllables broken down into five, seven and five. He has captured the real essence of the seasons with this poem.
The second is a very sensual and passionate piece of writing, while the third is a calmer, more muted and successful attempt at a fourteen line sonnet.

The Four Seasons

Rabbits frolicking,
Meadow’s wild flowers in bloom,
The wonder of Spring.

The Mayfly hatches,
The leaping brown trout catches
A sign of Summer.

Trees laden with fruit,
Sparkling sunlight, glistening hoare,
Autumn has arrived.

Clinging, freezing fog,
Snow-clad ground and near naked trees,
Cold, raw, stark Winter.

Jade

Semi-precious, from the mystic East
I cast a spell over those who behold my beauty.
Carved into intricate shapes, captivated by my wonderful colour,
They fondle my curves and caress my polished surfaces.

I bring lasting joy to those drawn by my magnetic charm,
I adorn palaces of Emperors and Kings.
Ageless and timeless I’m sought and desired.
I, Jade, mystic gem from the East.

Rustic Reverie

The lofty elm, the mighty oak stand tall,
Beneath their shady mantle bluebells grow.
High in the beech a tawny owl doth call,
In fading light a badger hunts below.
A tractor purring softly wends its way
Through leafy glades of sycamore and ash.
Cricketers leave the field at close of play,
An otter in the river makes a splash.
By meadow and common in twilight’s glow,
The farm dog hurries to his master’s shout.
Soft shadows lengthen as the sun dips low,
Beneath the weeping willow leaps a trout.
A rustic scene o’re which the evening creeps,
As darkness spreads her cloak, the village sleeps.

 

THE SUMMER GAME

A battle is about to commence, of tactics, skill and wit,

With rapturous applause and rousing cheers at every boundary hit.

Fifteen men dressed in white, what a spectacular scene.

This summer game, the game of life, played on a surface of green.

 

The magical sound of leather on willow, music to my ear,

Whilst relaxing in warm sunshine with fine old English beer.

Batsmen executing text book strokes, bowling accurate and keen.

This summer game, the game of life, played on a surface of green.

 

The batting side are well on top, runs piling up fast,

But the wicket’s turning and taking spin, this surely cannot last.

The bat is beaten, stumps cart wheeling, he’s bowled good and clean.

This summer game, the game of life, played on a surface of green.

 

Evening approaches, shadows lengthen as the sun dips very low,

Last man in, ten runs needed and one more over to go.

The atmosphere electric, as a breathless hush steals o’er this scene.

This summer game, the game of life, played on a surface of green.

 

A single, a four, a two, no score off the next.

The batsman smiles with confidence, making the bowler vexed.

Then comes a six, the winning hit, the likes you’ve never seen.

This summer game, the game of life, played on a surface of green.

 

The crowd erupts excitedly, cheers echo round the park,

Some invade the pitch, while others head home before dark.

The ground now deserted, peaceful and tranquil is this scene.

This summer game, the game of life, played on a surface of green.