i’d rather be in the company of a
dead poet than no poet at all
so armed with Seamus Heaney
who understands my outside world
far more than the living and is close
to emotions that can split seams
even though he has no heart beat
or blood pumping through his veins
i find clear water where the lake
creeps closer to the lane in winter
it is summer magic and the surface
ripples are blinded by sun
my back arched against a tree in shade
this quiet glade hidden by a canopy
dense greenery thick with contentment
serenity reigns as life’s dross is far away