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
johnjosephlyons 