After the winter gloom
that feeling of well-being,
to be bathed again in summer.
By a sleepy lake reflecting blue
sky, a tired jetty’s wooden legs
shadowing down in cool water
and the odd ripple of hungry
fish, surfacing for may-fly,
and in a distant tree-line
a hidden cuckoo, timely
sounding, mellow and plaintive,
a soft buzzing by, that flicker
of damsel and dragonfly,
pluck a bent of new grass
pondering the absurd, the thought
that all these elemental things
are not divinely caused or wrought
and have not converged in time
to feed and please my rustic soul;
this then, to me is real living,
not like that jet-trail above
poisoning the atmosphere,
chasing the shades of time
on a turning world, going nowhere
through an endless void of meaning,
that insane hum from a distant free-way
trying to convince my mind
to stir from what is crystal clear
life growing upward from the ground,
and who in their right mind
would trade omnipresence, for a blur!
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