couple of sketched poems from the walk

There are building and names, walls and signs
Spread out across this canvas land
I see pastoral scenes of farmhands and cowmaids-in-repose
Painted upon this valleyed land
A magpie - with branch in beak - settles in a nearby tree
That has taken up its watchful place
Over this thriving land,
And all about the world unfolds
In the cup of time
That is this ancient land.
But the Earth, she remains,
The mother of all these works
And guides our feet as in times gone by
The source of all our mirth.

Call me a loser!
Call me a waster!
But what is there to lose?
What is there to waste?
When I have no need,
Nor nothing?
'Tis better to suffer all the slings and arrows of any fortune
For to do the other is always to turn to Death.
But this peace of which I speak, death it is not!
Not the still lifeless stone
That tumbles in the river flow!
This is Peace and Love
That smiles at death
and makes it of no consequence at all!