The woods, if they could,
the way they trap and tap
and sieve and spray sunlight,
the bittiness of what they shed,
preach pine cones and
kindness of their floors...
the fields if they wield -
for all flesh is -
and between the acres
all the aches relieved re-lived.
The seas so ease and cold they gold;
and old they hold
the bobbing and the mind.
The marsh and dunes, the drama
sinking on those sinking days,
trailing stubborn puddles,
sun-dried, lark-sung, thrift-flung,
marram spiking itchy sand.
The woods if they would,
fields if they feel,
seas at their ease,
dunes in their tunes -
always awaiting.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
