I claim this hour for poetry,
those whispered words of tyranny.
The glade enclosing sun and breeze
while wind is tearing at high trees.
I claim these woods for poetry,
the quiet sounds of mystery.
A word that will not let you rest,
a hatchling falling from the nest.
You come across them trembling still,
sharp gazes held by force of will.
A flicker at the edge of thinking,
sweet phrase with shadows interlinking.
Beneath the forests streams of light
and then sudden flight.
You tense, heart waiting, watching breath,
the earthy smell of life and death.
The intertwining mysteries of words and states of mind
The thumping hooves, the hollow bark – the roebuck and the hind
This time and place for poetry,
the pleasure and the agony
A memory you won’t forget,
the solid and the silhouette