Such beauty, as this hot July Sun sweats me
As I wait, for no one, nothing,
Here under blue
In dry grass
By this narrow and shallow
Stream:
Such serenity, as if no noise existed
Beyond:
Only Buzzards calling;
This breeze in dried grass.
Such a difference, when I walk
The two short miles
To that lane -
It is only a narrow lane
Stretched between hamlet and Farm:
But so many vehicles
As if the rush confines to define the lives
Of they who drive.
So much unsettled
By their flow;
So much disturbed.
No watching of Butterflies dancing, there:
No sound of wings
As the Dragonfly skits
Past
To but briefly land near my hand.
No sound of Stoat
As it peeks out to peer down
To rush across water -
So quick
I turn my head
And it is gone
To leave only an impression,
Only memory
Of a sleek brown being
Who is here
Where it, living, belongs.
Yet - such fixation, there
On that road
Where the world that is not my world
Lives, in its own way,
Killing
The Silence
DW Myatt