The winter’s trees all seem
to root in fog in some
unfinished scene, silent
as the absent green; these
whose motion is to wait Continue reading “Winter’s Trees”
The Council hates
the much-loved oak
on the village green.
With trees that leave
I will remain:
I’ll join their shadows on the green.
Continue reading “Leaf Shadows”
Said the crocuses,
said the catkins on the tree,
but the frost said no.
So I am a tree.
The finest in all Devon.
This must be Heaven.
They know I’m here, the trees,
or sense that I am near,
no less than the fretting jay.
This is no void or lonely place. Continue reading “With the Trees”
There is a tree that waits for me.
It grows where many pass it by.
Roughness of bark its only voice.
How lonely, then, if I should die.
Let there be more trees:
Free the lidded earth and let them gush forth
in unending fountains. Continue reading “Let there be more Trees”