Long
Has the song
Been in the trees branches
Over hills
Swept sweet in streams
Cascaded upon meadows
Fell to the ears
From heaven
Resounded angelic
Familiar cries in the woods
Depths of all seas
Valleys echoed
No mountain has missed
No lion has roared
Not a man, be he human,
ever ignored,
Perfectly the voices
Signing breezes
Of things
And all that
Can be

In bitter winds the little Pipistrelle bats
Flitter hither and thither
Into the hills,
Around tree-timber limbs
With brittle twigs.
They wing their way
In thrills
Of twists
And turns.

Meanwhile, deep down below
The cows moan,
Roaming through the range.
They moo while they chew the cud,
Ruminating their food
Grazed earlier from prairie meadows.

Through the long day
They are accompanied
By flocks of birds
Twittering and tweeting,
Much noisier than the bats.
A feather flung chorus
Singing operas and arias
Amongst the misty trees.

Word composers love these things:
Mother Nature wrapping us
In her arms
And filling the air
With sights and sounds
That sooth the soul,
Sending us soundly to sleep
While those bats
Come out to play.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\11\2020.

I've lost the will to penned
the undetach cord
between real and fantasy
where I laze and daze
the uncomfortable feeling
until I become the ultimate leech
who ***** people
dry.