In praise of Wallace

Some say that he’s no poet
           but what do they know
he is succinct and always
           to the point
and shadows run freely
           through his verse
and the heavens are a backdrop
           to the endless mountains
Men and women live
           in his lines and he observes
more than a blackbird
           will ever see

He hears the strumming
           of a poor pale guitar
but he is generous
           in his appraisal
because he knows
           that things are as they are
and so he gives them a voice
           and poetry is the subject
of his poetry
           and his life’s summation
the flesh the bone
           the dirt the stone

In Margravine
           where the squirrels romp
and crows fill the air
           with their raucous song
and the tombs sink deeper
           into the earth while nature
flourishes all around
           and young lovers walks by
without batting an eye
           and not so much as a sigh

John Lyons