The trees, night.

Souls in the tree of life,

their bowls ablaze– 

coppering their old gold.

As day moves to evening,

all warmth leaves the trees.

Red blood alone in their branches

remains. Heating

her lamps.

Brighter now than ever

for a short time before

sunset, moonrise.

Souls in the tree of life,

their bowls ablaze–

Small and dwindling their flames.

Small birds fly.

Moon waxes gibbous,

its tilted egg almost there,

almost full.

Souls in the tree of life,

their copper bowls are night-warming.

small their flames.

In dead of night, their 

flames flicker, dance.

The stars are trees' tongues,

moving into language.

Her lamps lit,

her diamonds hung.

It is long, long

before dawns' song.

In the bluelit

darklight,

         bluebells thread

into boundary hedges 

     working up,

closed are their flowers.

Light begins round the great Yew,

setting red the comet tail of a spider's

house.

It is hanging by a thread.

There are more blue flowers in Spring,

There are more blue flowers in Spring.   

Winter has passed. 

The ancient tower is abeyant,

trees rush to cover it. 

Dwarf irises and hyacinths,

lift their powdered arms.

Narcissi crowned, ignores them. 

A hawk trembles through the upper reaches of my trees. 

Souls in the tree of life, 

their small bowls aflame.

Small their lights,

a bird begins his song

Amaryllis, like old gold

coppering on my sill.

New leaf is come,

where hedges were shorn.

The hacked hedges,

harshly cut,

Last cutting before the nesting–

The trees, dawn.

Late, the willow pushes out her new leaf.

Great pink blossoms in bunches like

bouquets hang head-heavy against

willow's stasis. 

Peonies emerge, pink and blood.

And the heavy perfume of a dying rose.

She brings flowers that are dying. These

are mauve. Zephyr-caressed, their petals,

fawn-edged. 

Shades of pungence, 

  of mauve pungence.

They will bow down by morning.

I do not understand. The green leaf falls

on my black end table. Why bring the

dying to me? Haven't I had enough dying?

Your mauve roses, zephyr-curled, 

are browning. Frilled.

White cherry blossoms are blown. Tulips

mouths hang open in despair. I almost step

on a white eggshell, broken, out-of-nest.

There is a dead tree and no nest above me.

The small birds have flown.

The rooks in the ancient tower

do not want to be disturbed by me.

There are trays of proliferating pansies

by the church steps. Several snails seek succour in her

door frames. A cross across a mossy path once

an egress, stops you in your tracks.

          The village vases are being replenished.