Tag: poet

The way is thick with a silvery haze,
And rich with winter’s fruit.
A fleece of moss hugs tight 
The feet of our elders,
Who stand regal in crownless slumber.
A single loyal Robin on his guard.
An affection of rain
Kisses gently every exposed feature,
Promising new life.
Steady is the rhythm 
Of this still breathing wood,
It moves with intention.
Not a thing is wasted,
Even decay is nectar.
Hours bead like water
On Wild Garlic shoots,
They pool about the stems,
And the day draws itself out before me.
The estranged march past it,
Severed and unseeing.
Time to them is but a number
That slips away.
They take no notice of the symphony
Of the gentle wild
That inspires me.
That devours me.
That devastates me.
– Essie Parker Walsh