Destiny

Where ships sail into the lapis harbour

there is a mirror of tranquility,

now ask soothsayer, youthful destiny . . .

though prophecy laps globe, tincture water.

Here dwells no little black lamb: but brother

who in bitterness deserts harmony—

yet like a rhododendron, grows in peace

toward the sun, with five petal daughters

fused at a jewelled base in calyx green,

blotting out the sun of sixth earth effaced,

poisoning bees until they are toxin-

laced: enlisted, they produce mad honey—

the locals’ remedy—hallucinate—

a hostess’s golden drops, so rich as sun.

W.E. Isaacson

The Orchard

What I held out in the starry orchard:

redstarts on split bark, hollow trunks, rot holes,

aged wind, boisterous in the leaves, hollows,

rippling down verdant canopy of gnarled

branches reaching out as if days passing

in blossoms pristine and pure, grafter’s quest—

lichens’ range wrapped the woman in a dress,

while sun’s rays level themselves through her leaves,

and the nut trees sing in bright vibrato,

white corps de ballet bends in arabesque.

Apple cider is bottled William Blake,

over grassland rife with wildflower notes,

then Brahms waltzes to my inner silence—

I am as still as glass Bassenthwaite Lake.

W.E Isaacson