I found a book of butterflies I never thought to read and as its pages flew away my mind to it did cede thoughts of a peace we never had despite how it may seem for like the wings of butterflies such hopes are fleeting dreams
In the still of morning wrapped in birdsong and the day’s last chill fragranced by the passage of night across the trees I lose myself in a moment one of a million I’m certain a tangible peace which glisters as crystal then cracks and shatters, as such moments, like we are fragile things and time’s hands know no delicacy
in their countless numbers fly
the ravens cross a moonless sky
above the red house on the hill
from the days this night to kill
black is the canvas that they paint
blood red the brush from which it’s tainted
what savage artist bore this scene
is only guessed at, never seen
for when the blackbirds take to arms
no fault is claimed by those whose harm
transcends their petty palette’s slight
to condemn us cursed to this last night
and we who live and love and dream
are sacrificed to ill thought schemes
in the green wood long ago there grew the smallest tree and in its branches there did grow a bird too small for all to see this tiny bird it sang a song which calmed even the wildest beast and through the forest winter long this little bird he sang of peace.
one morning cold in winter deep the woodsman came with axe in hand and as he thought which tree to reap that song of peace rang ‘cross the land and his wield was therein stayed as music filled his heart now gay never more to swing his blade as calmed by peace he was that day.
In these times of strife and woe of intemperate worldly wrongs into that forest we should go and listen to that ancient song such innocence of form and grace not from a great bird but the least and in that dark and earthly place be filled with light… …and hope… …and peace.