The Malapert Lordling Poem by Steve Trimmer

A castle he built in a wild place
Away from the belabouring tongues of eparchy
A fine castle of sticks and dirt;
An epicurean retreat

Not a scintilla of care
Self-pity he knows naught of
Conscious only of the soughing wind;
Nature’s own evensong

Conscious only of the river flow;
A bemusing doxology
Conscious only of the rustling leaves;
A perfect synod

Here, in Her tree school of epistemology
Canticles he writes to Her
At versifying watery edge
And sings to Her from his truth-told consciousness
His heart