Just the caw of a bird
From a tree climbing high
So the wind can be heard.
I sit on a rock
Bleached white by the sun
The morning is hot
And the ants on the run.
On the crest of the rise
And sheltered with trees
Are homes in disguise
With a view of the seas.
The ground here is hard
A butterfly passes
Nature's on guard
In the rows of high grasses.
There's something surreal
In the calm of this place
Where man's footprint is real
Yet I can't see his face...
(c) Poet in the woods 2013
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