A Spirit in the Glens: Colby Glen

A glinting stream
Fretting over the stones in the chine,
Murmuring in and out of the pebbles,
Curling
And swirling,
And eddying around boulders as if pouting;
On its eager breast
Patches 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.
And here a throng of thrush and rook,
Of blackbird, chaffinch, linnet, dove,
Each with his fellow.
Trout lie at rest
Beneath where the gnats hand flouting,
Whirling,
Unfurling
Wings or gauze. Here are no rebels,
No rocket rasp, not bullet’s whine;
No slaughter scream!

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