We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage / And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, / We Poets of the proud old lineage / Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why ... (James Elroy Flecker)
Showing posts with label The Bent Broom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Bent Broom. Show all posts

18.7.20

Landscape

Landscape

We are the twisted tree,
the weathered stone, 
the boiling cloud,
the coiled slumbering snake.

Why do we still
consider ourselves separate?

We — tree, stone, cloud,
breeze, odour, light, spider,
grass, ant, wallaby,
snake and hominid —

are landscape.
We are kin.



Found poem. Extracted (with permission) from an 
Instagram post by The Bent Broom, and shaped as a poem.

Sharing at Poets and Storytellers United's Writers' Pantry #29.