David Welch

IN ORDER TO BE SANE

A quiet call born of wind
the rustling needles sound,
a hard chair of stony set
cooler than dirty ground.

A raven’s throaty call is head
and endless birdy chirps,
beyond that silence evermore
so much better than work…

Below a shepherd’s happy bark
faint echoes made of words,
illusions broken instantly
by another of the world.

But frustrated I cannot be
‘cause who am I to blame,
another who will seek the wild
in order to be sane.