the space inside trees
full of green shifting leaflight sliced through by finches with scimitar certainty in the quickening of spring hope like a far hill in the grey light of morning rising regardless the darkness of trees making a gift of the light in winter starkness framing their clear panes of air just these ones, always changing |
open the window and let the moonlight float in washing the linen how flimsy the fence that keeps me out of the wood its firm intentions shouldered aside by badgers and ducked by the dancing hare darkness before dawn sliding off a wet slate roof the eye of the moon |
a tree made of air
its flowers more green than white last visible thing in the draining of the light its own ghost, water-scented the first bumblebee drunk on so little sunshine blunders through the wood along the main road thorn trees step out of the mist pale and distracted their thoughts visible in clouds of cold blossom round their heads |
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