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.
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Author:
David Welch (
Offline) - Published: September 20th, 2025 14:46
- Comment from author about the poem: Check out my books on Amazon! https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B008RP0672
- Category: Nature
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
A masterful work. Not sure but it seems that the word (heard instead of head) on the first line of the second stanza might be a typo. Loved the meter as well as the message. A fave
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