Towards Verse

The valley lies quiet today in the profound green
of late summer fullness. Scarcely a breath
on the air. Little expectancy. But the spirit
holds. There is much trouble in the world
but no diminution of hope. The spring
acclamations of birdsong have been falling
silent. Quick mid-summer thunderstorms
have gone by. I let the red gate swing
open to the demands of noon – in deep
shadows of the wood a smallest creature
stirs, hesitates; at the wood’s edge, something
shifts amongst the grasses, falls still. Upstairs
the notebooks lie open, the laptop idles. I
pause a while, inhale, turn towards the house.



John F. Deane



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