SETTLED
So it is settled:
Cupped, hammocked
In golden hay fields,
The sun
Of this northern land
Free, for a week or two,
To proudly swell
In still, blue skies.
To warm brick and path
Long past sunset.
To pull trees starwards
In deep green shade,
Sheened with dust.
Nestled, the violet mallow
In golden grasses.
Nestled, the purple knapweed
Along the pasture edge.
The hedgerow elm,
Two years dead,
Swathed lush in ivy,
Crowned, adorned
In arcs of wild rose.
Life rushes in
Dressing old wounds:
White yarrow, pink yarrow.
Sudden sweet drift-
Overwhelmed by honeysuckle.
The fingers, white fingers
Of bindweed count the days.
Swallows sigh happy
Swinging high in evening.
It is a time of tasting,
Of breathing.
There is music,
There is silence,
I can find no difference.
There is one second,
There is the next,
Tell me, if you can,
Which is more perfect?
—-
simonhlilly 