The Shapes of Trees
Here comes the mist,
sweeping through the trees,
whitening summer dawn.
Shapes of poplar,
chestnut, a grove of oaks
succumb to its swirl.
Blankness envelopes me,
as this mist teases me,
curled as a simile,
the faint outline
of each tree
like one of its leaves -
until it rolls away,
white revealing green.
Colour grows into morning.
Mist of memory, from which
the woodland shapes
come back to me,
it clings to secrets
till dawn's slant sun
clothes them in roselight
- each branch, every tree -
a drifting boundary
beyond whose blind I see.
Let's go pick blaeberries
Let's go pick blaeberries again,
strong, dark, sweet blaeberries
that lie in lairs
as though they understand
the country's dangerous.
They hide dark wine-blue hue
among mild red-green leaves,
on slopes that stalk the sun.
Let's spend an hour or so
pretending we live like this
always, provisioning
this fruit we breakfast on,
freeze down, consume as pies,
juice thickened by heat,
sweetened with honey.
Let's go pick blaeberries, shy
on high braes of July,
blaeberries, earthy,
Let's go pick blaeberries.
Let's go seek, let's go early.
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