Country Child Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

I’m country child, spurn town defiled, pollution makes me wild.
When Spring’s waft breeze soft tickles trees, from beaten tracks I keep,
with heart beguiled by creatures wild, through woodland dim and deep
my way make mid the bracken hid with self seem reconciled.

From city guil[e]d, souls’ stress, soles riled, I’ve strayed, at peace abide
with sun and shade on woodland glade, in valley, mountain steep,
delight each sense with joy intense, a harvest rich to reap
from Spring which rings till Autumn brings its fruits by bushels piled.

I fly with bee from tree to tree’s bright blossom pink and white
No cities know pure streams, dawn’s glow, with time 'to stop and stare',
there is no smoke, where folk won’t yoke each other to despair.
Suburban spite, skyscrapers’ height, can’t quite convince as right.

Imagine plight of elf or sprite confined too tight! Maid, knight
stroll hand in hand through leafy land in freedom everywhere,
no asking why, nor spoke reply, we’d need, nor seek, nor care,
for spirit mild of open child soars through delight, finds flight.

Love’s love’s invite, both greet the light when dawn’s first flush is born
with badger, bird, with lowing herd, we’d sit and stare, take time,
no clocks absurd, no siren whirred, should compromise love’s rhyme.
so haste with me to taste joys free, no more to fee in pawn.

When warm zephyrs wave the undergrowth at the forest's ferny feet,
larks rise at dawn, dusk's nightingales sing madrigals mild as sweet,
then thrush appeals to starling: 'Fie, forsake thy stealing way! '
as early birds, badger cubs, shy hares, welcome the break of day.

Lets brave the wind with hair unpinned, love at first sight ‘tis styled,
eyes seeking eyes flush fresh surprise through morning, noon and night.
As seasons flow stiff reasons go, know heights, no lows, excite
summations which together stitch two into one beguiled.

Yes, I am a child of the country, longing for lush fields at dawn,
for meadows mild, free space unriled, no haste waste chase in pawn,
where fresh air feels fine, fair, fragrant, light's first faint flush is born,
with urban ugliness forgot, with its manicured tight-lipped lawn.