A conversation amongst trees
I cannot hear what they are saying, that young girl
and the tree. Their whispers are intimate, ceaseless.
I am sunk into a conifer hedge, tamped into a wall,
threaded into the blue ivy.
This is a warm chaplet against the rain,
And I would lie here if it wasn’t for the sky -
the sky will not skew to my vision,
body conspires with green leaf to thrust me forward.
And I am become aware that it is time for this to cease,
A mead of daisies whiten on the windward side
of a grove. Trees,
daisies are blown white beneath silver beech.
Those hues balance
and If I step at once from the shelter of this close bower,
Will it hold ?