Golden-green dream of a tree,
this churchyard weeping-willow
leaves lanceolate assagai blades
strewn a wide wind-wake away,
and yet now, there, loosen and slip
beyond breeze-rocked withies
and long, outreaching arms,
which are far from emptied.
Sentinel by the library, one birch
still freckles a twigged interstitial
with coppery irritability.
A great grey heron sails
over the row of global banks -
a strange, sedate, ungainly grace,
her neck hose-folded, S-shaped,
retracted. "What?" her eye says,
looking down on me with hardly
a tilt, on a 'need to know' basis.
'It's a town centre. I'm a UFO
You ain't seen me."
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
