Poor Poet's Scroll

"No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, [6]
But one poor poet's scroll, and with 'his' word
She shook the world." - Tennyson, 'The Poet'

I may not shake the world, but I do believe in the power of words.


12. Nature's veil

The boiling mass of seething clouds

duck-egg blue and combed with grey,

a raging mass of choleric cotton,

a mirro r to the malice below.


Trees reach upwards with skeletal limbs

to seize the vortex skies.

Raked trunk sucked to a dry decrepit husk

gorging on the vitality of the earth.


Indefinably connected to naïve young saplings,

a rampant beast in a world of seeming divinity.

The innocents breath with gentle flutters,

struggling to share the limits of life.


Deceptive yet simple, a flower bed

rich in colour, erotic with scent,

fool’s gold  to the oblivious observer

but a scab on the evil surface of the earth.


Man and nature- two disparate worlds

One white and soft and honey sweet.

Across the divide, the satanic devil prowls,

In a world of shadows, pain and menace.


Open your eyes, breathe, and what do you sense?

Now what’s your assumption of nature’s innocence?

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