Good Day At Black Rocks Poem by Martin Ward

Good Day At Black Rocks

Upon a rock,
a broadleaf beech
sits as Psalm sixty one:
waiting for the whiff
of freshly-baked bread,
from millstones laid to rest.

Through the verdant canopy,
woodland hues afford a view
of mother's womb from which
the weathered companions came.

Children scramble
upon the pair
and scratch their knees
or bark of roots.
More brazen lovers
dare to deflower
the rocks with carvings
unworthy of Quarrymen.

Ghosts of industry or nature
whistle and hum through the trees.
Is this nature or the glory of man
contorted in some hideous form?

Birds sing to the tune of man;
imitating sirens and car alarms
calling from country lanes,
where their close-to-kiss
bumpers seek to miss
the cost of parking
next to the concrete
lavatory block and
Ice Cream Seller's stall.

It is a scene of extreme beauty.
Far distant hills beckon and beguile:
no plaster to cover scars
that tattoo the luscious flesh.
It is still. Until the next family comes,
crushing contentment underfoot;
laughing, running, phoning, texting,
in half-awareness of this place.