Tree
The red rob of the sun,
pools, unpools;
bleeds white the arc of the sky,
a low earth this winter,
a grained stroke stain of a cloud.
Before the veined eclipse
drooling the heart of the hand,
is a black tree with a black calligraphic
bird
of jointed puppetry.
It caws; the sound of silver
cutting blue
straining the timid of prey,
in the distance –
a man of leaning age
coughing, wiping away a gin
tear.
It is still, the wide of it; rough
cold braille
spelling the birth -
a circle of saplings,
a Druid love match; fertile chants
now lost in the static
of its bare arms. The black tree
muted, dressed for snow,
is slowly mourned
by the shifted grey air -
spooks of ice ribbed breath -
and there, it is there a black
ache for nothing sweet.
Philipos
Thu 11th Oct 2012 19:55
This is a very classy poem evoking many pleasing images.
I do agree with Sid to a point about the first verse, though it would sound much snappier if you lost that first 'the' in line 1, & also the second 'the' in line 3. It would be a shame lose that opening verse.