The Writers' Circle

On sodden perch he rests his flight, this being with grace unparalleled...
and trodden ground within his sight, bears still the prints which nature held...
The wild and wretched barren hills, which in my infancy seemed bland...
provide the paths no blizzard kills, and leaves him free to understand...
how silence in it's emptiness, can cleanse the soul of pain and grief...
So once again he flees his rest, and wanders on in his belief...
that solitude despite it's peace is deafening in consequence...
but guides the spirit as it flees, to re-possess it's innocence!!!