Earth
carrying the silence inside and beyond.
It’s a
rainy winter afternoon,
the turf
spongy underfoot,
the trees
have been pruned,
branches
become thick stubs the colour of smoke,
neat and
naked in the sky’s pearly wait,
tall, lush
trees that had been towering
beyond the
roof, their bareness now,
their
countenance, like wrists and fists
pointing at
some high dot in the distance,
calls us
back to order, necessity,
the spare
tune of roots and soil.
Tall trees.
And the new ones
just
planted, the cherry-tree, the fig, the apricot,
with all
their promising, budding future
now just
thin, flimsy things, a silhouette of twigs,
I gaze at
the grey earth mound with at the centre
the hole
they have been stuck in.
The rain
falls,
the vast
and close stare,
breath of
air.
It will be
evening soon, then
the future.
I won’t see
many of its fingers
but some
are already here, just underfoot.
And low
clouds over the silence.
1 comment:
lovely descriptions in this
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