A poem I wrote in 2020 at the edge of the Wye river, UK.

Balms

At the edge,
The edge of the pebble feathered shore
Hear the faint trickle-whisper of nature's soft law,
The Wye's calm roar,
With every signet's unsure tentative plunge,
With every gosling's nervous, echoing tongue,
A wise call to take up peaceful arms,
These balms,
Against a world gone half-mad,
Mask-clad,
Apocalyptic dreams gone bad,
A refuge,
A haven,
For the swallow,
For the heron, the raven,
And us.

by Mick Young