Sit with me in silence
Hear slow nature’s heart
The rare warbling of a songbird,
A short rustle in the dark.
The footstep of an insect
Pushing aside leaf and stem
The startled walk and dark red cowl
Of a pair of pheasant hens.
The myriad depictions
Of all nature’s shapes and forms;
The fallen tree and the millipede –
Long line with shorter branches galore.
And the infinite variety
Of the same idea – the leaves
Some small, some large, some long, some thin,
Some russet, red or green.
The calling of an early owl,
The flash-white rabbit-tail, scared,
By the stomp of a passing blue-clad woman
By the river, with its stagnant air.
Her, gone, allows nature to resume
From the path up to my watchful seat
Where all can see beyond the river trees
A floodplain planted with grass, too neat
To be the work of nature’s hand,
But rather ’tis the work of man.
And listen beyond the rustling breeze
To hear planes and cars, filthy cans
That even here make themselves known.
But to that world I must return,
Tear myself from this secret womb
For man’s tended and tainted blooms.
Please enjoy this long Tuesday poem. It’s about the same place as ‘A Poet’s Place’ – but in much more detail, and, I think, much better.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic