The Song of Higher Reaches

The Song of Higher Reaches


In the woods of verdant Bouldnor,

Where the Holbrook sends its water,

Stands a poet, older, wiser,

Pointing to the ancient forest,

Through the woodland to the forest,

To the foliage of the treetops,

Floating proud against the skyline,

As they scramble up to heaven,

Leaving lesser twigs behind them,

As the seedlings strive to catch them,

Bursting out in desperation,

And the moon, a pale momento

Of the night, sets out to luring,

Following her blithe companion,

Following her fiery war-trail,

With a sly and silver slug-trail,

So the poet stands there pointing

To the buzzards, quietly circling.

‘Stay upon your upward spiral

Coveting the warmest thermals.

Stay above the treetop foliage,

And glance not into my woodland,

Where the creatures in my keeping,

Go with joy about their business,

All oblivious of danger

Hovering above the sky line.’

In acknowledgement, they falter,

And turn back beyond the vision

Of the older, wiser poet,

To return another day.


©Ruth Twyman Lockyer August 2014

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