Across the vales of sweeping grass
Beyond the summer-swept coastline,
The lines of flocking thrushes pass
Between the rocks and Scottish pines.
A whistle calls the thistle-shrub
Between the mother and her cub,
And as the bears move up the stream
She leaps, and tumbles into steam.
The waterfall's a sainted arm
Rushing through the blushing woods.
The summer breeze, with all its charm
Has never left, and never should.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 5:57 PM UTC
Across the vales of sweeping grass
Beyond the summer-swept coastline,
The lines of flocking thrushes pass
Between the rocks and Scottish pines.
A whistle calls the thistle-shrub
Between the mother and her cub,
And as the bears move up the stream
She leaps, and tumbles into steam.
The waterfall's a sainted arm
Rushing through the blushing woods.
The summer breeze, with all its charm
Has never left, and never should.
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
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