In search of yew in Borrowdale

that shared the sun with Judas,

I walk a rutted path,

aware of twinges, snares, rocks,

carrying your paints and easel

along with this bowl of words,

no longer fit for consumption,

mold festering in knots

from sour touching fruit within.

And if these words were berries,

gardeners would stand disappointed

at the canker in the bark below.

And if a perching blackbird,

sang this song from any tree,

on any perfect spring morning,

it would jar, taint the air

and cause the world to frown

at such discordant notes.

We’ll find a place to stop, you and I,

and you will paint this landscape,

my eye drawn towards a blemish

where a loose neglected sleeve

was dragged across wet canvas trees

in one careless movement;

a moment you won't come to know

as discarding the bowl by this footpath,

I swallow the words and wait

till the bitter aftertaste subsides,

resolves in time to soil and dust

with Borrowdale’s ancient yew.