The blank page was a locked door
A poem opened before –
A silver beech it once soared
Where the river Glaisnock roars:
Forests in the wind singing,
Seek your grace, and refraining –
They tell you to be in them
Rather than write about them;
They ask whether it is good –
To bask in their joyful glades
Or turn them into deadwood,
Into splendid accolades
Printed in a book of poems.
©Krishnamurti Ganesh
The Poetry Liner 