Submission Guidelines

Thursday 3 January 2013

Chris Murray



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
for once.

and If I step at once from the shelter of this close bower,
Will it hold ?

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