If I Were A Bard

If I were a young Bard. I wrote my first poem when I was about 13.I was taking a short cut home when I saw a woman washing her herself by the fire place, few people in those days had a bathroom. I was so enthralled by this that I wrote a poem. My older brother found it, gave my ode to my mother, who said I was a pig. This shocked me so much that I never wrote another poem before I was fifty one. But all the poems I didn’t write came tumbling out it was like they had been filed in my head waiting for me to pick up a pen. This particular well is empty, the poems I write now are contemporary. I have a collection of verses, edited by a friend of mine “The Tasmanian Tiger” when settlers came to Tasmania they eradicated that animal, it will never come back and that saddens me deeply. In Norway we very nearly killed off the wolf, my inner ear can hear them, in a snowbound dale them when the moon is full and I too can howl to a mythical past; a longing for harmony in a cruel world.