Chris Murray

Chaplet

I.

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.

Out. 

II.

Bower

 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,

and If I step at once from the shelter of this close bower,

Will it hold ?