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Evensong
Beneath my daydreaming perch,
In the ancient pollard willow’s crown,
The stream tumbles in its bed, over pillows of black limestone
Edged with a fine moss lacework, into the pool below.
The crystal waters seethe, sunlit, over bright gravels,
Spread like jewels before the Moghul throne.
The riverine realm of the trout.
The king is in residence and now takes his pleasure,
In the dappled gardens of the willow‘s shade,
Plucking an emerald lacewing from his ever-passing heaven.
This rising red-speckled constellation in a heaven of green-gold stars,
Is a revelation in my warm summer evening's reverie.
Once more nature‘s cathedral captures and spurs me to piety,
As a thousand avian voices join, exultant, descant and discordant,
The wild observance of Evensong,
And humbled, I walk home in the early starlight.
