The following poems come from Winifred Margaret Clary’s book Through My Window (Forward Press, Ltd, Peterborough, England) and are copyrighted by Mrs. Clary. They are publically exhibited by the Joseph Bucklin Society by her kind permission, granted during her life, expressed to Leonard Bucklin, Executive Director of the Joseph Bucklin Society.

Mrs. Clary was firmly convinced that William Bucklin (b. 1606) who went to New England in 1630, came from Radipole, Dorset County, England. Inasmuch as William was the progenitor of the Bucklin line, and hence of Joseph Bucklin 5th, the person who fired the first show of the Revolution can be said to have had a Dorset County heritage.

The ‘Spun Yarn’ of Buckland Ripers

‘The Roman soldiers, in retreat,
Fled down Buckland Ripers street.’
Here is an intriguing mystery:
Is this gossip fond, or truly history?

The walls of this old house are sound
Deeply founded underground.
‘Tis certain some must date before
Cromwell battered down the door.

Edward the Confessor passed
This land to Thanes – to hold it fast
Against Duke William’s men: They won
Alas; The Saxon way of life was done.

But did the Saxons find, complete
A hidden fort, by Roman retreat
Abandoned, as they fled this land?
In my bones, this I feel I understand!

The Seasons

Now is the time when birds do strut and sing
And waxy snowdrops cross-stitch greener grass;
Widely now our windows open fling
And watch dread winter slowly from us pass,

Skeleton trees arc flushed with green,
Piping song all day surrounds us,
Swallows, once more on wires are seen,
Manuscript music to astound us.

The settling sun still warms the earth
A golden stillness holds the land
Nature’s palette brings to birth
Colours brushed with a magic wand.

Trees are dancing in the wind
Icy rain stings every roof:
Our curtains drawn before we’ve dined,
That winter’s come, it is the proof.

Garden Visitors

At this mornings frosty dawn,
My creatures wait on me:
An expectant squirrel by the lawn
An impatient robin in his tree.

I work the noisy casement latch;
The squirrel lifts a tiny paw,
And deftly does his breakfast catch
As I throw it through the door.

Hot on his trail the robin comes
Staring with his bright bold eye,
To finish off the squirrel’s crumbs
And, hunger eased, then away does fly.

Not so my squirrel: at the door
His tiny visage pleads for more!