Sometimes I sit beneath The Poets Tree,
where legends linger, not yet me.
Their passage earned with words so pure,
their names etched in, their place assured.
Byron, Tennyson, Burns and Poe,
I feel their words course through my soul.
They bring me comfort when I am alone,
lost in my mind ~ where poems grow.
Breathing deep their scent floods in,
my senses ache from deep within,
of powerful imagery, rhythm and rhyme,
lost in their words from another time.
If I dare to look up perhaps I will see,
a new green shoot, that may one day be me.
Copyright © 2011 by Mike Sutcliffe