The Stork
I wish I was soft beating heart,
That measures time with wings;
To float and sweep as soaring stork,
As might the lark that sings.
Serene and free from strife and woe,
To rise to skies where storks shall go,
Disdain the trials of man below;
To chase their futile dreams.
Each autumn sleeps the setting sun,
Rest lower down than June;
My clock the ever cooler breeze,
The waning of the moon.
Spirit free and nature bound,
To circle high o’er river, ground,
Until my summer nest is found;
Contentment is my lyre.
To rest my wings and soar above,
The meadows and the groves,
To float above the river, stream
Above the windswept coves.
My home is simple, mortgage free,
Bequeathed and mine for years to be;
A feathered home for weary wing,
To slumber sweet till skylarks sing.
Michael (Walsh) 11.03.13