A conversation among 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,
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
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 a silver beech.
Those hues balance
for once —
and If I step at once from the shelter of this close bower,
will I hold?
© C. Murray
Chaplet © C Murray