The Medicinal Value of Natural Beauty

     While my husband and I were watching Midsomer Murders last night, we agreed that the scripts aren't always as fine as they should be, although the acting and camera-work are reliably excellent, but what really attaches us to the series is the beauty of the English countryside.  The gardens and hedges, the vines climbing up the front of cottages and mansions, the rich array of foliage and flowers are magnificent. 
     Back in the late '80s and early '90s, when I was writing the poems in The Green Road to the Stars, that I published on Kindle last year, I made several trips to England, and I wanted to capture some of that beauty in my poetry.  And not only the beauty, but its effect on the our spirits.  Here is a poem that I wrote in a small town in East Anglia, not far from Cambridge, where my husband was supervising a group of students from the University of Central Florida. 

The Best Cure

I found a little teashop
that was quiet as a mouse
by walking down a narrow lane
where every little house
was dozing comfortably inside
without a breath of life
as though the urge to nap a while
had seized each man and wife.

The shop had big bay windows
with one tiny lettered sign
that whispered "Teas" to passersby
who had tea on their minds.
My mind was one of those, although
it had a Worry too,
all knotted up and thrashing round
till it was black and blue.

I took my Worry and myself
inside the green front door.
A bell chimed most hospitably
as though we'd met before.
The room had little tables
that were round as any plate
and pots of Busy Lizzie
to fill up the empty grate.

The door into the garden
had been propped back with a brick,
so summer sun could make the air
as warm and gold and thick
as honey or a marmalade.
A waitress dressed in blue
served scones and clotted cream and jam
and tea that was Typhoo.

As I sipped and savored these,
the garden called to me.
My eyes traced out the lazy path
of one fat bumblebee.
Suspended in the golden light
were flowers Nature grew --
roses rambling as they pleased
and hollyhocks askew.

Two tabby cats had stretched themselves
beside a basset hound,
all dozing, dreaming peacefully,
without the slightest sound.
Like me, a chalk-blue butterfly
was savoring her tea,
at rest on a buddleia bush
as still as it could be.

The little shop could well have put
the garden on the bill,
for tea and nature work a cure
as fast as any pill.
My Worry came unknotted
and was almost half-asleep.
When I strolled out, it followed me
as docile as a sheep.
 
(It's a pleasure to share some of my children's poems in this blog.  There will be more later on in the week.)