Our Secret Valley

In our river valley
the water music has tuned with the air
long ages before we walked the skirting path
to dare the dapple dancing of the river run.

There, beneath the sun, fragmented
in a glittering shower
we built our bower
home wrought, wove green for a day.

But childhood ends, we could not stay
forever feckless, reckless of our sowing,
growing adult tares.

The trees still stand and wear
their mantle leaves,
the brook still sings and weaves
its artless way.

Who grieves?

Not Nature – but our nature.
Sheaves of rank weeds are poor posies,
greed and passion – yes, a false fashion
where once we were only clothed in light.