A Bustle in the Hedgerow

when art is driven by more than a simple need to pay bills

when art is transcendental and becomes more in others’ minds

when art is the motivator,

the catalyst,

the trigger point,

that art becomes more than just clever words — phrases collected

when poetry makes you feel

when poetry makes you ache

when poetry breaks your heart

that poetry becomes more than —

-

just the thoughtful and thoughtless words

of an introspective, overly-fraught traveller

someone with too much time on their hands

facing the void and screaming —

for rhyme and reason —

to make sense of all that has been, that is

and all that will be.

-

Sure, the wind howling out its quiet requiem makes for pretty, as the hammering of the woodpecker into the bark of the tree makes for a thundering realisation of the destructive power of even the smallest in the natural world.

Sure, the tides that splash themselves in waves back and forth against the edge of civilisation make for a dramatic and melodramatic concerto of the terrifying untapped power of the unrestrained majesty of the natural elements.

The drip-drop pitter-patter of the rain on the windowpane and ledge, the guttering and the roof of shingles, slate, or something more rustic —

makes for pretty melancholic music on a day that could be best described as inclement and overcast, which serves as some kind of metaphor of ebb and flow, come what may and what may never in your emotional well-being when you are busy listening to the drumming of a heart that has given so much so often and felt it falter from the backlash.

-

Tie me to the moon and let me slip between the stars,

I want to look at planet Earth from afar,

where it might hurt less, where the pain might feel distant,

-

The pain of what we do to one another,

through choice,

circumstance,

pettiness and

big bad feelings —

emotions,

for intellect and greed, deception and need, hatred and abhorrence.

-

I ache for the better, for the better feeling, for something other than dread, anxiety, and pain when I look to our world.

Will the ache ever die out,

will it dull its salt-laced, peppered sting?

My best guess says no, but I always bank on my best guess being second best to the truth.

So, there is hope and not the deluded type, or perhaps it is?

It doesn’t feel deluded to believe in something other than all we know.

Surely, we need believers n the better, to make the better happen?

-

Or this could just be a bustle in the hedgerow —

spring clean for the May Queen

there are two paths, you see — much like Frost and Plant opined

it makes me wonder, if the tune will come to us at last,

when we are one and one is all,

to be a rock and not to roll

or, is this just

pestle and mortar grounded reasoning,

stripped of matter, import —

denigrated and designated

for the blowing wind to the east.

-

Does the writer decide — the editor dictate?

I wonder, oh I wonder —

or do we just set our words afloat — adrift on the breeze, or at sea

hoping someone — anyone —

takes notice and claps back in response

claps

whether in agreement or not

the challenge is always

to question, to search

to scream at the void —

and

let it answer.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Another of my all-time favourites, this was written originally for Scuzzbucket on Medium and published on May 23rd, 2025, and you can find the original link below.

For help with some of my inspiration for certain lines -

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Also, if you want to own some of my earlier work, you can by following the link and buying my debut book The Accidental Poet: Poetry Collection on paperback, ebook or read it as part of Kindle Unlimited, by following the link below.