You asked how much they could
Sell the wood
For (always assuming that they wish to sell)?
How easy it is to tell
That you are a man of pounds, shillings and pence,
With a sense
Of the price of art,
Though I fancy I hear an abacus click,
Where should beat your heart.
The thunder came last night
But there was no flash of light,
Just a reverberating rumble
And the tumble
Of rain.
I stood aside, allowing him to pass,
Along the woodland path.
“Thank you” he said.
I
Dordled,
Allowing
Him
To
Get
Well
Ahead.
I seek the company of men
When in the mood
For repartee,
But why do they intrude
On sky,
And tree
And me?
Walking upon grass
I pass
Through light and shade
No maid
To accompany me,
Just the shade
Of the final tree
To engulf me
What does it matter that you sing,
High up in yonder tree,
For your song is not for me,
And to sing
Is such a temporary thing
I remember when the rain
Did maintain
A more or less steady beat.
Now my feet
Can not a puddle
Find, for nature is in a muddle.
And man’s distain
Will not conjure the rain.
Soon baubles and toys
Will intrude, while the day’s noise
Will wrap me in petty care
Yet, on awakening there
Where
The birds, as they always are
Drowning out lorry and car.
My hair is barely wet
At all
And yet
The rain did fall
As I stood
In yonder wood.
The yammer
Of a hammer
Reached my ear,
While the birds free
Sang to me
As I touched the flowers
That know not hours.
The traffick noise momentarily fades.
No words,
Just the singing of birds
And a yearning for woodland glades
The egg breaks
And man takes
His place on this earth.
Be he mighty and proud
Or lost in the crowd,
It is death and rebirth.
He will return to the turf.
The tree from the grave grows
And who knows
Which came first, the egg or the bird
K Morris - Poet 