Your Sun-red Pen

Oh high-minded critic
Would you grade
The silent woods
Or burbling mountain brook
Crossing meadow's vale
Over long-rounded stones
Why then stamp
Flowered words on a page
With your slashing
Sun-red pen
Lay down your judging sword
Lie with us in the meadow
Listen to the stones bubbling
Be content that they are
That they are what they are
And content yourself with that
Which they are

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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2006