I am so grateful for Nature
How faithful
She is to herself
Her beauty may be marred
By toll of excess
But never of exile.
As the wind blows free
Its tune remains true
Not deviating from its melody
In personal ilk or egoistic chord
Telling God how to run the world
As our church musicians do.
On high tree the raven speaks
There is time for him to be heard
With voice thoughtful
And compelling
How pleasant to be his audience
What he tells I do not know
But he speaks with a voice
I would thrill to hear.
The little bird's endless chirping
From the safety of branch and bush
With circling hawks above
Predators that always hover
Dangerous to their small self
That finds the time to sing.
For these sweet sounds cool
My unhappy discontent
Beaten and bleeding from
All my senses
I can be made to endure cheerfully
This human exile of beauty
I can be made content
Within Nature's sweetening hand.
When we lived at the Lodge we were surrounded by ravens. I learned to imitate their talking call which sounds to me like a hollow-wood being tapped.
ReplyDelete"Nature's sweetening hand" is a lovely thought.