A Swallow Chick Back In Its Nest (and Other Little Chores To Do)

A Swallow Chick Back In Its Nest (and Other Little Chores To Do) long poem

Photo by mrmoorey

Harp strings over the woodland mist
Such shiverings of endless prayer
That never seem to say goodbye
They only seek to keep you there,
And steeped in woods of long gone days
Of Summer green and Autumn sky
Are dryads of the ancient ways
That dance as whispering treetops sigh.

A poet who repairs church floors
Knows many ways to write his rhymes
So many paths, so many lanes
That lead to oh so many times,
Yet many know his cottage light
And each one knows him by his name
Each is a friend who needs his help
And see in him a kindly flame.

And up ahead, the village green
Where giant oak trees spread their arms
And on their bench under its shade
They chatter as the evening calms,
As the poet passes they say hello
And wish him well upon his walk
Down by the riverside once more
Where birdsong glows and soft winds talk.

Old Meg looked up and smiled at him
She gathered herbs here every day
To cure the village people’s ills
And take their miseries away,
Soon he turns and wanders home
A poet walking all alone
Though as he walked, his dream came too
And they’d both chat upon the phone…

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