Mornings walking

A décima poem as an exercise, because I find this form extremely difficult. Not sure why. I do know I’m not a big fan.

 

Mornings walking where the dew falls,

In the dripping meadow grasses,

Where at night time badger passes

And the tireless nightingale calls

To the moon and when a star falls,

In the grass I find the places,

In between the flowered spaces,

Where life that knows wild freedom crept,

While we and ours soundly slept—

I never see their wide-eyed faces.

Coping with peace

 

They ask how am I coping in

these times of isolation, though

the world turns on its axis, so

nothing I do can change the spin

nor stop the rain, take out the pin

that keeps our orbit round the sun

till all of time and tides are done,

but I would keep this peace that falls,

the quiet of the bird that calls,

the certainty of river run.