The Last Poet On Earth (Poetry)

The last one of his kind
grown rare and man-shy
he lives out on the moors
his roof the wide sky
his brothers wild beasts
and shadows in flight
his plumage slow-turning
from greybeard to white

He sings in the sunset
and carves on a tree
the lines in his heart
flow so naturally
and the spirits applaud
each perfect green rhyme
every breath is employed
to match season’s time

He writes on the clouds
this poet of earth
he ponders on death
and celebrates birth
loves each bursting bud
and cherishes flowers
sees the storm strike
where the lonely pine towers

Who will conjure such odes
when the last poet’s gone?
or magic sweet verses
romance can dream on?
He’s a dying breed
this shaman of words
the voice of the planet
flown high with the birds