The Quiet
The zephyr breeze disturbs the leaves
through pristine forest trees,
and water gurgles over rocks,
while coursing to the seas,
disputing shrieks beyond all sight,
as if there is a riot,
yet with the gloom I left behind,
this does become my quiet.
Thunder bolts though distant now,
are carried on the cloud,
a rustle made in dying grass,
can be a nervous loud.
Sombre tones of crackling fire,
may well fill the night -
where natural balance poises,
this quiet I will not fight.
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2021
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