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
