Dennis Cannings

United Kingdom

I was born 28th March 1933, son of Mr. Stanley Cannings at Coobe, near Enford, Wilts. The son of a farm labourer, I was raised and worked mainly on the land my entire life. I was also a shepherd for many years on Salisbury plain. I have been married to my wife Pamela for 44 years now, and have four children who also now have families of their own. I have been disabled since 1986, when I had a massive stroke, and find writing poetry gives me pleasure and peace of mind.

Stonehenge Thoughts

Oh! Silent stones, in circle round -
Your shadows cast upon the ground,
What mysteries you hold, within your heart,
What tales of days gone by, could you impart.

Awesome and majestic, you stand so upright -
A place of deep feeling on a silent night,
A place of dread, midst your circle there-in,
So quiet, so still, only the movement of night's vermin.

As I stand alone, neath your moon-made shade-
I seem to hear voices chanting, yet I am not afraid -
For it seems to be in place, here 'mongst shadows,
The chanting coming louder, echoing from the old barrows.

The silence falls once more, and all is still,
The wind softly moaning, through these stones on the hill,
I look around me, with a wonder in my heart,
How long is your history, and when did it start?

So many tales have been told, of your days.
Folk-lore has been written, in many changing ways,
But only you, stones of silence, grace and bliss-
Can put a true answer, to tales such as this.

Wiltshire Memories

This County of Wiltshire holds many memories,
Of old standing stones, and avenues of trees,
Rolling green hills that are topped with old sites,
Where battles were fought, or Druids practised their rites.

White horses carved in chalk, gaze down
Onto valleys beneath, or over an old town,
Keeping silent guard over the White Horse Vale,
And ever-watchful, over a long lost trail.

On the plains, old barrows stand in silent array.
Clasping their secrets of long-ago day,
Chiefs buried here, or even an old King,
Celtic, Roman, or could even be an Old Viking.

Many old roads criss-cross over the downs,
That led from old villages, and on to the towns,
Where chariots used to race, and Legions did march,
Through avenues of Elm, Yew, Beech and Larch.

Villages scattered, each side of the Avon,
Set in wooded valleys, the home of the raven,
These homesteads have not changed much in all of their years,
Since village life began, with landlords and overseers.

And so it is, in this County of ours,
You can wander at ease, and while away the hours,
Dreaming of days long ago, of what it used to be
To be living in a paradise such as our own County.