My poetic pilgrimage began April 2015, whilst seated beneath a willow’s weeping bough, just to the left of the vegetable patch. I was already an ardent reader and a dilettante writer, but like the unremarkable blackbird that roused me that day, I was a fledgling—a fledgling poet about to take flight.
I watched him, my garrulous friend, as he flitted and fleeted amongst a tangle of bramble close by, and as I sipped hot tea and breathed the sweetly scented spring air, I thought how endearing he was for such an unembellished bird. This set my mind whirring, and in a moment I’d scrawled a little rhyme in his honour—short but undeniably sweet.
Other poems swiftly followed, each and every one a far better verselet than my humble blackbird. Nonetheless, he had given me the nudge I needed, because by then, the fire inside me was vehement and with ‘simple pleasures’ as my stimulus, I proceeded to pen my first opus: a garland of whimsy, loosely hinging upon the many adventures treasured dearly by myself and my family.
Elizabeth Henry’s poems are quite simply beautiful. Touching and uplifting, they have their own special magic.