The Thinking Poet


Of Pines & Pain

Pines proclaim transfiguration..

Their needle fingers etched on blue

Claw back curtains draped across eyes

To give delight of sight.

The steadfast green that tops the pine

Encourages faith in Springís return.

Its bole, golden-glistening on sun-rich days

Harvests for unveiled eyes, ripe wheat and new-mown hay.

On horizonís lip a lone pine stands.

Resolute, it faces every wild wind blown from Wales.

Yet rarely does it weep, and then but tears of balm.

We should do well to match its stoic calm.

In silent prayer for a wayward world they gather on hilltops.

I know of three pines on a desolate knoll,

Stark against evening, black as sinning.

They bring to mind a dark end, and a beginning.