A morning climb

To perspiration peaks

Chinks of chestnuts

Then gravity

To berries and buckthorn and breeze

And a trail of sterile smells

On smooth steel rails

Through stale green woods

Chalk castles and cuttings

And cracking green domes

The Channels sweet nothings

The bright and the height

And bamboo flight

Of clay curtained windows

Stationed words of light

And distant vision

Hiding in plain sight

An infinite eruption

Like the storms of distant nebulae

In a cloudy cup

I’m up in the straight trunked cherry tree

That no one else can climb

It stands like a flamingo,

I swung up like a monkey

And, buried in ice cream blossom

I’m hiding from my brother

But he went inside long ago

To read a book

If flints are people with problems

Then the watch is a ticking time bomb

And if the bushes are an approaching storm

Then the paths are borders of a kingdom

And if the scaffold keeps the edifice upright

Then the pine is an old man in his youth

A magnetic henge

like a human hinge

Voices in unison

in faith

It is as though we are the leaves

populating the trees.

We come green and gather

then, as the sun goes down

we leave

A voice of beauty

opens the hidden door

to a theatre of lime light.

The month’s warmest wind

caresses the tree lit darkness

and carries away the days

on the bow waves of autumn

Time flickers

Like the lights of this market place

Where lucent lines trace feet in stone

and pilgrim trod furrows bury animal burrows

Not fully excavated