Bent near naked
split oak utters
and the Wood isn't anybody's
secret anymore
Insects cluck from dead floored branches
thick grass in indifferent waves
soft green inhuman needles
Curled up beast sleep buds
pierce low slung air
Wild garlic is coming
until there are delicate wet stars
whiter than
blindness
or ideal teeth
ramshackle sing song here and there
stickiness
too sweet
tenderness
We two, bruised up, begin
saying, "love", remembering
Woke up faces
are at hand
Now that looks a lovely place (if no longer quite secret) for a peaceful escape and a bit of healing.
ReplyDelete(Our wild onions have already come and gone...)
Even without Tom's link to the photo, this piece puts us solidly there.
ReplyDeleteThank you, both.
ReplyDeleteIt's one of those necessary green spaces without which the city would be unbearable. We go up there whenever we can.