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Poetry from within

Talkin Tarn

Unfathomed depths of primordial plate

A kettle hole, a small Norse lake.

Two adults, with a child, in an

old sailing boat

Out of the frame of Time they float.

Those branches once would creak and bow,

The hanging tree’s grown silent now.

Fragmenta of a time long gone,

The echoes of a long lost song.

The water ripples, an otter swims

The birds await their cue to sing…

Farlam, and Talkin, stir awake,

The boats lie becalmed by the lake.

And there you walk, and listen to

The birds, who seem, to sing for you.

Predacious, elegant in their form

The damselflies begin to swarm.

The drabbled dogs -some way away

The red-squirrel scurries to its drey.

Like footsteps following where you walk,

The waves are lapping on the rocks.

As shadows haunt the wood at night,

The mute swan’s wings are folded tight.

The lights are out within the bay.

The farm, the cattle, the rusting plough

All are but fading memories now…

(Dedicated to Jean)

Robert Carson