The swamp sage
John Clare Stokes
You cannot think yourself some
Yeats or Clare
In love with fairies
In fields of hedgerows lined
Or even imagine
Yourself some Ansel
View camera in tow
Reducing the land into zones
Of tones from white to black
With middle value grey
In between
You will never be the poet
You wish
The fairies he knew you won’t
There are no hedgerows
In this land as Clare knew
Why the landscape is full of color
Contentment in just being you
The greatest attainment.
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