What sight of the trees makes
me dream? The bare bones of winter:
their coppice leaves are dead and buried;
shoelaces thick with the grime and the
spittle of mulchen earth. Molten. Catching
strands of my hair in a belittling tug.
Twin white gloves stuck to the tips of
branches, where do you hail? I can but
whisper through now berry-reddened teeth.
You’ve made me more than oxblood,
more than the water – the sweat and the
sweetness. Trees of beauty, my comrades;
what hearts are stolen into pine-cones,
into bracken? The ferns are your fingers now
and they waft at my ankles, the cuffs of my jeans;
the blue, blue, blue of my exposed feet.
© Eve Redwater 2012