Your Poetry Dot Com - Valley Clock.

The knitted trees of the forest pattern the skyline well.
A great swathe of dark shadow
That clings pugnaciously to the hillside.
And there below, where the valley, twists and turns
In a fever of escape,
A buzzard is devouring the loneliness,
His cat like cries clinging to the stillness, clinging to my mind,
Like the fragments of a well remembered dream.
And in a wild flower meadow, conducted by the breeze,
A band of crickets strike up and the delicate flowers come together
In an intimate dance of the wild.
At the edge of a redundant pond a frog croaks,
His lusty decibels speaking of freedom.
My heart ticks the valley clock
And the great swathe of the forest is rampant still.

This poem is Copyright © cashfan1