The Evergreens
They have this idea
to spend the year chatting,
lining the walls of the back garden;
their dresses ruffling with
every whispered tickle of birdsong.
Regal they are, lasting in their plump
precision; perhaps a grandmother
to all trees, whistling, offering
pinecones - I find them hopeful
of a hug every time I pass them.
As a child, I gave them my
bruised knees, my cobwebbed
fingers and torn sleeves,
tear damp from losing
all my imaginaries, taking theirs –
their greens – nuzzling into.
Over the kitchen sink
I see them now as if I never
grew beyond the bottom
of their branches, their belly
bright ways unchanging.
Graham Sherwood
Mon 9th Dec 2013 23:33
A whispered tickle of birdsong.
Why can't I think of words like that? A quite lovely piece.