Writing At The Rectory's Lake

Bird song beguiles my ear, as I put pen to paper,

Not caring so very much for the distraction,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

They sing as it's chattering track,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I failed to hear.

Rushing river begs my eye, as I put pen to paper,

Annoyed at it I do begrudgingly become,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

It flows as it rightfully should,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I failed to see.

Earthy pine beswirls my nose, as I put pen to paper,

Waving it away, I sorrowfully regret,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

It lives as it's aromatic ambiance,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I failed to smell.

Thick air becircles my breath, as I put pen to paper,

Exhaling it thereafter I reluctantly admit,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

It gives flavour to all around me,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I failed to see.

Roasting sun betrothes my hand, as I put pen to paper

To shade it upon me, I do mistakenly so,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

It becomes the cold breeze's antithesis,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I failed to feel.

Nature betraps myself, as I put pen to paper,

To shrug away it's lustre, I wrongfully did so,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

I dare to be infidelic to its beauty,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I failed to know.

How ironic it is that, as I put pen to paper,

I ignore to world as it permits me to write,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

My attention is unwittingly led rightly,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I failed to understand.

But my thoughts turn, as I lift pen from paper,

To the living beast that preys on my mind,

How selfish of me to wish it to stop,

For to the scene to which I give observance,

I will never blame for it not understanding I,

For it is the natural nature of things,

Of which, I now understand.