To become so small, so insignificant
That the cool tangle of the riverbank
Is the whole world.
For the creeping of insects
To sound a background throb
To the rustle of the reeds
Like sheets flapping in a storm.
The slap of the waves, a thunder roll
And the air vibrates with warbling notes,
Dropping from the immensity of green canopy,
The sublime music of the blackbird’s song.
To creep, to hide in the momentous shade
Where life teams, and the city noise,
Metallic braying wreathed in acrid fumes
Like emissions from some distant star
Falls into the black hole
Of man’s futilities.
Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 