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Poems

A Night-Time Stroll

While marveling at the starry sky
Where silver clouds scud and milky moon beams
In a firmament swathed in navy blue—

While exhausted folk slumber and dream,
Of fear or flight or of falling through space—

While the air smells of autumn, of trees, of smoke
And sounds of crickets, cicadas, and bold toads
Who sing in their want with chirps and hoarse croaks—

While descending the hill through low grasses
That run to the feet of an oak tree stand
Whose spectral aspect shadows the foot path,
There comes a turn and vista of the land:
There lies the distant village and spired church
The quiet houses and earthy, quaint lanes
Surrounded by arable pastures of wheat,
Rolling hills topped with rippling grains—

While on a solitary night-time stroll
Through rustling grass and the brisk, biting breeze,
In view of an old, wild, gleaming river,
There comes a worn, welcome feeling of ease.

Categories
Poems

Ravens

Orange pumpkins and golden grains ripen
Beneath a horde of black ravens who circle fields
Where a straw scarecrow stands with his pipe in
To frighten the birds from their meals.

The sky is not yet blue; it is rosy this dawn.
A tendril of mist twines around the fruitful hollow:
It is a delicate white wreath, soon gone,
That laces the amber-leafed larches and purling river below.

The air is thin and clear–
A person could see here for miles,
And sound carries to a listening ear:
The rasp of ravens, the sacred, silent whiles.

Day comes; the mist creeps into low, dank holes,
Then vanishes as the sun paints the rose sky blue,
Leaving the moon in the east like a glowing coal
And coloring night’s purples with daylight’s vivid hues.

Flying like a rushing cataract over the still hills,
The ravens light in a dead and leafless oak,
To preen their glossy feathers with their matte bills
And caw and croak and cackle and laugh as if at a marvelous joke.

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Poems

Summer Grasslands

Bison graze the tall, golden grass.
A sparrowhawk rests on an oak.
A herd of wild horses, paints, pass.
Like the sun, they’ve never been broke.

It is summer.  The wind is hot.
The river’s just a silty stream.
By it, a fox settles in for thought,
Then he curls himself up to dream.

At night the fireflies come out.
The flies twinkle like earthly stars.
Owls hoot.  Wolves howl.  Trees creak in drought.
Planets can be seen: Venus, Mars.

The wind rustles the big bluestem
And shakes the leaves on the willow.
Silver clouds scud.  The moon is dim
And lights the plains with its grey glow.

Categories
Poems

The River to a Trout

This poem presents a trout’s description of home: the river.

The rhyme scheme is abab.

river-landscape-1869.jpg!Large
Gustave Courbet – A River Landscape, 1869.

What a fine and watery home you are!
With currents rippling, cold and clear!
With a sunken gravelly sandbar
To which eggs will easily adhere.

And what a clean, quick sound you make!
As your water burbles over stones—
Aqua drawn from a cold lake,
Where the water’s as silent as bleached bones.

River, you branch and fork and cleft
Beneath the willows and the oak
And entwine with mists of gossamer heft
That mantle your surface with smoke.