Wildlife In Symphony

I remember exactly where I was when I wrote this. There is a lake on the campus of my university, and I was sitting in a pavilion that overlooks it. I was drawn in by the beauty of that spring day, and how all of the elements of nature seemed to work together to produce this fantastic landscape. Sounds and sight, it all captivated me.

Intermittent croaks from the toad on it’s pad,
humming a foundation for nature’s symphony.
Bobbing beneath a weeping willow’s way,
as the tendrils brush the flowing azure away,

The midday birds trill their sweet soprano,
in a swirling sequence of sunlight’s song.
The heron patrols as lord of the lake,
an occasional alto for the song’s sake.

The reeds and rushes writhe in rhythm,
and rustle in a present percussion.
But when the wind whirls with the leaves,
outshone is the song that reeds weave.

Silent spiders silk spins a sack where I can sleep,
soothed by the sways and sweeps of the symphony.
As I find myself woken to the warmth of the wild,
why does sentience suddenly seem so vile?


On The Path Of Autumn

This is a poem simply about appreciating the sensual experience of opening up to nature and letting it surround you, definitely Autumn nature to. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, feeling it… but perhaps not tasting it! There’s also that other strange, undefinable sense that comes from being somewhere quiet… somewhere serene and organic. It’s a feeling you get, a safe one. Certainly deserving of being some kind of sixth sense.

Cyan dragonflies pierce the air
like flying needles of the forest.
On a shoulder of mine
one pauses to rest a weary wing.
My finger reaches to welcome
but is abandoned by the insect,
unwilling to be batted to blood.

Weaving wind gifts leaves to my feet
and rasping rain dampens my hair.
The green grass embraces my shoes,
following me through it’s home.
I don’t wish to lay on the woods’ floor
so I side-step the liquefying brown.
It wants me to come nose-to-nose,
with my face touching the stone.

Climbing, I am pricked by pine needles.
I would have them simmered to tea,
had I a flask of hot water on hand,
bubbling away their mischievous spirit.
Cone fists fall as I grab for them,
whilst those sharp fingers mock and point.
I shake, and they find themselves
well and truly, beneath me.

My footsteps are percussion,
an undertone to the orchestra.
Inclusive to my wilderness soundtrack,
the woodwind birdsong calls from the nest.
Thunder rumbles to replace the bass,
and rainfall contributes to ambiance.
No chime, no flute, no drum,
can match my symphony of the wild.

I am undirected, mistaken as lost.
I wander without a destination,
but not without a purpose.
And such a purpose?
Free will, simply.

May The River Be My Path

I remember being on the bus when I conceived this. It had been a particularly stressful week, and my mind was simply wavering unto things that I could do to find peace. Although I may not do them, I could write about them, and simply following a river into an ocean of oblivion sounded like the zenith of tranquility to me. So I tried to tune out and imagine the flow of a river being my guide, one that I had complete and unquestionable trust in.