As I continue trying to put together some kind posts upon bookbinding, allow me to present this honest verse.
The storm boiled over with a wealth of stars
And passed brim-full beyond the horizon
Thrown as far distant as Europe lies,
And all else blown apart by the clamorous sky.
Under some broken constellation perhaps –
Chaotic tinder, burning bright through the cloud –
Shuddered the cold moon,
Startling white over timber hills.
The quiet, peaceful ache of the trees –
That audible incense of home –
Unmoved by an age of storm and wind
Was sentinel still
And was all the tranquil air
That commotion can never surmount
Entrenched and aged;
Veteran – not frail –
A conquest of calm nature over nature crazed
And a quiet peace
Of wood, and leaf, and weed
Beneath the stars.
Farewell, wellbeloved reader