Close to the end of the woodland path,
Shortly before you join the thoroughfare,
There
I ran my hands across the tree.
It’s rough bark kindled in me
A child’s wish to an impression make
Of that tree, and to take
It away with me.
Had I crayons, perhaps I would have captured that bark
On pristine
Paper, creating a clean
Bark rubbing
Leaving the tree as before.
Yet as I stood
Close to the edge of that wood
I thought how one can neither restore
Nor rub away
Yesterday.
I saw flowers on my way
Through yonder woods today.
They were the same bloom
As those I admired
And so desired
Yesternoon.
But no,
I can not be sure
As they grow
In such profuse store.
I think therefore
That it may not be so.
I perceive
The flowers as I
Pass by.
Should I
Grieve
That they will die?
I paused and smelt
And felt
Their slim stem that I
Could so easily break.
I chose not to take
And did the blooms forsake
For I
Know that they shall die
Walking home
The birds
Are content.
And me
For a while.
In the middle of this wood
I should
Be able to forget my care.
Fresh air
Is there
And the sun is high
In the cloudless sky
Yet I …
A plane flies by,
Then another one.
Perfect silence has gone.
For modernity we yearn
Then turn
Away.
When each day
Is full
Of dull
“Opportunities” to try …
I cry
Out for the old.
One can not hold
On to the past
But when the future is vast
Supermarket aisles
(where there are no denials
And one is free
To be
Anything or anyone),
I wonder where meaning has gone.
I linger here
As thoughts drear
Contend with birdsong.
I shall go ere long
Back to the street
Where a myriad feet
Have been,
But have they seen?
The pig does merely eat and drink.
Sometimes I think
That he
Has the advantage over me.
Nature is libidinous they say.
Yet on my way
Through the woods today
No nymphs did I spy.
Though perchance
They performed a hidden dance
Amongst the budding tree
But not for me.
I have yearned
And turned
To what I ought
Not.
While hot
I have
Been momentarily glad
To
Go through.
Then
When
‘Tis done
I run
To what is true,
Mistress Nature who
Does not care
Where
I have been
Or who seen.
The Commons debate
Matters of weight.
While in spring
Flowers pleasure bring
Why this disdain
For the rain?
Tis the sense
That all our expense
Is vain
While the rain
Will remain.
Birds
Render words
About poetic craft
Dull.
Am I daft
To seek
For knowledge in a book
When I could upon nature look
And hear the birds speak?
K Morris - Poet 