England’s Summer Beneath The Trees

Wood pigeons
And the soft-throated dove
Strum the hollow harp,
Cooing summer lullabies
Of love and sunshine
And offering
From feather-puffed breast,
A purring resonance
Put to the warm breeze
Replete with lawn mower whirrings
And the sweet green scents
Of grass, newly cut.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Pointless Poem

This poem
Has no point
But
For the pleasure
In the curvature of words
And the feeling of forms
So malleable
In the mouth.

Just writing it
Is beautiful elocution enough.
Speaking it
Is satisfyingly pointless.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015