Colby Glen

A glinting stream

Frets over the stones in the chine,

Murmurs its way through the pebbles,

Curling and swirling

And eddying around boulders, and pouting.

On its eager breast

Are flecks of yellow

Where the sun falls through the leaves above.

Farther along the brawling brook

A pool marks where the phynoderee

Splashed when from labour he was free.

Here is a throng of thrush and rook,

Of blackbird, chaffinch, linnet, dove,

Each with his fellow.

Trout lie at rest

Beneath where the gnats hang flouting,

Whirling, unfurling

Wings of gauze. Here are no rebels,

No rocket rasp, nor bullet’s whine;

No slaughter scream !

 

Mona’s Herald     6.2.62