THE LOSER POET’S SWANSONG

The river lay slumbering in a repose deep

Tiny bells chiming in their necks, blissfully grazed the sheep

Sheathed in a tranquillity serene

 On the meadow green.

Smoke swirled from a shepherd’s hut as dawn dabbled a roseate streak

On a bird tiny and meek.

In this deceptive calm

 It appeared the world was safe and away from harm.

A figure under a tree, bent over a piece of paper was writing

Perhaps   waging a wordy duel with a world which was perpetually fighting.

In his mind like a slide show, grisly scene after grisly scene unspooled.

The birds of prey overhead flew, and at the feast below drooled.

 One body looked like a sock caught in a tornado, ah he felt anguished.

 Another like a dissected frog twitched and then perished.

But where he sat a brilliant glow suffused the sky.

 The trees let out sigh after blissful sigh.

The river purred out its incessant melody like a stroked cat.

The sun again hid behind a cloud, like a naughty brat.

Snug in this refuge it refused even to play peekaboo

In the blue beyond, happily a bird flew.

The waves clung to the rocks with abandon utter

Embraced them with ardour and in bashful tones dared to stutter

  Their love for the rocks stone hearted.

 The bird overhead, this way and that, happily darted.

But the loser poet, like a tortured soul, felt stranded at sea

Would he not be rescued, he wondered, eyes fixed on a distant tree.

Uselessly the pen lay in his hand, but suddenly land ho, came a shout.

 But he still continued to be burdened with misgivings and doubt.

 Soon in his heart he felt the stirrings of a reward.

He looked up at the sky, and searched for his God.

“What can you do, you arm chair reformist, you need to grow

The sword was always mightier, don’t you know?

What are you, just a loser poet, a pathetic peacenik?”

It was as though someone had given him a kick.

These jibes ricocheted in his head, ah the pain was extreme.

But still, he bent down to   pick up the shards of his dream.

And despite the barbs started weaving a word tapestry

Embellishing it with the chirps of every free bird in the tree

 The fragrance of myriad hued bouquets

 The hues of peace, the scintillating brightness of sunrays.

But alas, so overwhelmed with emotion, his heart failed.

Nature mourned his death but his effort was hailed.

Every leaf, every flower, every snowflake

Every colourful butterfly, every ripple of every lake

Picked up the notes of his swansong

Building a crescendo of hope which hit at every wrong.

 From up above the loser poet pumped a fist in the air.

Strutting on amongst the clouds with a self-congratulatory air.