A lull in my day-job has allowed me the luxury of watching Nature being busy this morning. Poetry isn’t important work in the great scheme of things, but at least it’s a job for life.
The wind is at work
Rushing round the trees
Like a zealous inspector
Looking under every last leaf.
The birds are busy
Flying endless sorties
Forcing down insects, strafing worms
To satisfy their voracious fledglings.
The sky is a stevedore
Stacking clouds like crates and fat grey sacks
Each packed tight, freighted with rain
Ready for tonight’s delivery.
The land is labouring
Thrusting up shoots, filling leaves,
Emptying itself into fruits,
Cracking under the strain.
My work’s worth is nothing
Against their world-shaping toil
Yet the moment I take up my pen
All creation is in my hand.