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

 – quiet,

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

 .

 .