The Fence
Caught at the foot of the titanic root,
I realize his power and am subconsciously captivated,
Without movement, the tree lurks like a brute,
Blocking the sun with his arms elongated.
I cant stare too long, for a flaw found falters image,
As I turn I see new beauty: a half dozen mouths grazing,
The wary farmer comforts my presence as he shops in the village,
Behind me the fence, ahead my view amazing.
Wanting what's not, I crave the other three seasons,
Each season stems serially from a hope all too nice,
The white, the colour, the orange are my reasons,
To why the young year's green pleases but won't suffice.
As the grazers migrate to a distant lawn mower my view also turns,
Back to perfection, to the solitary oak,
In the midst of a field which waves like a flame burns,
Goose bumps in this haven cover me like a cloak.
Its always too soon I have to turn back to the fence,
To jostle and bustle and tarry and flurry,
One day the perfect calm will be gone, until whence,
The wind will still make me tear as it makes the tree blurry.
'A poem begins with a lump in the throat'
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