Extremely sad news about Harry Wheeler..

Dear friends at PoE,

After recently sending Harry an email to enquire of his health, Sarah and I were very deeply saddened to receive a reply back from his daughter Amanda, informing us of Harry's passing away on the 5th of December 2009 due to complications resulting from his Leukaemia.

She asked us to pass on the sad news to you all, and she said how Harry was so proud and enjoyed the Pictures of England site, constantly reading her new poems he was about to post on the site. She also added that although he was a very sick man, he would still go on the site often and write his poetry.

God bless you Harry. We love you and we miss you. Thank you so much for gracing us with your wonderful friendship and your beautiful poetry.

Please click here for 'Harry's Thread', where you will find many of his beautiful poems, the words of which we know meant so much to many of you.

Our deepest sympathy to Harry's wife and family at this sad time.

'Memories' by Harry E Wheeler

Summer
Of summer on the farm in England
Of sitting high on Clydesdale’s back
Of playing cricket on the green
Of picnics under oaken trees
Of catching fish in secret creeks
Of swimming in the river’s pool
Of eating home-made bread and jams
Of Mother’s culinary delights
Of walking happily to school
Of all the things we did when small

Autumn
Of autumn leaves and changing colours
Of evening walks through golden woods
Of the days becoming shorter
Of cooler days and longer nights
Of chestnuts cooked on dying embers
Of Aurora Borealis
Of Father pruning roses
Of small birds migrating south
Of beating friends at playing conkers
Of putting away the summer clothes

Winter
Of the smell of fresh sawn timber
Of the warmth of winter fires
Of the aroma of stews and roasts
Of icy winds and cold of snow
Of the wearing of warmer clothes
Of reading books and playing records
Of Jack Frost upon the window
Of the drawing of heavy drapes
Of skating on frozen ponds
Of sinking deep in woollen blankets

Spring
Of the return of warmer days
Of the call of spring’s first cuckoo
Of bluebells, crocuses and snowdrops
Of Easter eggs in silver wrappers
Of hard boiled eggs with painted faces
Of the return of swifts and swallows
Of catching tadpoles in glass jars
Of the ladybird’s arrival
Of all those things, as I grow older
Of life in all those wonderful days gone by