Marie Bowerman Taylor

Hampshire, USA

Marie started writing poetry at about fourteen years of age, mostly for school magazines.She continued during the war years while in uniform, and after the war, while working, she still found time to write.On retirement she gave it her full attention, and produced two volumes under the title: "Passing Thoughts".Marie continues to publish in magazines and yearly anthologies, and is a member of the International Library of Poetry.In addition to writing Marie also enjoys Reading, Embroidery, Quilting, Gardening and playing Scrabble.She has a family of two children, four grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren.

Letter to America

We wish we could show you our Island home.
This Isle midst angry sea and foam.
We call it our Haven - our England,
We call it our "home-sweet-home".
We'd show you the Surrey woods in Fall,
You'd hear the murmuring streams.
You could touch the moss on cottage wall,
And walk where the bright moon beams.
We'd tell of London - a city - a world!
The wonder of Regent, the glory of Kew.
The Abbey, the Lords, the flags unfurled,
The policemen, the cafe's - not forgetting the zoo.
Then there's the cider that comes from Devon,
And the honey straight from the bee.
Believe me the West is a corner of Heaven,
With it's romantic past history.
There's the sloping hills of Dorset,
That sweep gently down to her shores.
There's the gleaming spires of Oxford,
And Yorkshire's welcoming moors.
There's the shimmering lakes of Westmoreland.
And Cumberland's Roman Wall.
And the whispering sands of Norfolk,
And the green Sussex Pines, straight and tall.
There's the lace granny loved, from Nottingham,
And the china from Stoke-on-Trent.
The brilliance of light that is Blackpool.
Making "Wakes-Week" the best ever spent!
I could keep pen to paper for hours,
Telling of her glory and fame.
But I know dear friend, from a distance,
It's a case of "What's-in-a-name?"
So here's hoping that one day you'll join us,
On this Island, this gem in the foam.
And like us have wonderful stories
To take to those waiting at home.

Memories

The little lanes of Ireland
Go wondering through my heart,
winding ahead on my way to the fair
with the pony and jaunting cart.
The coming home in the twilight
With the world at rest and still,
Young and old softly singing
as we travel over each hill.
Stars are bright in the heavens
Even the moon shines down
lighting the way for the ponies
As they pass through each quiet town.