The trees keep counsel with the atmosphere,
relaying messages to root-networks
from sun and wind and rain.
Envoys of the old Earth gods,
they speak in tongues long since estranged,
synthesising an intrinsic harmony;
the gazebo in their midst
an auditorium for breeze,
tuning multitudes of leaves'
differential densities:
eucalyptus scimitars pivoting edge-on
to sun, mangroves lacquered against heat
sensing tidal frequencies, paperbarks'
exfoliating tendency to weep…
Presences without the taint of spiritual decay
inhale me into their organic
paradigms of beauty, filter and exhale me
through astringent strength and purity,
reconciled, however fleetingly,
to my own estate and kind,
wanton, blind humanity…
From the gazebo in the park
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107020300549
Свидетельство о публикации №107020300549
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