Maggie Harris
Saplings
Let me tell you about trees
Poplar and spruce, birch, beech and oak, elms
They’re aching to touch the sky, aching I tell you
To shake the dirt off their feet and fly
What they really want to be are birds and clouds
So they entice them into their big hair
And gorgeous arms, cooing with promises of comfort
Wishing to hold them fast, those restless things
Let me tell you about these trees here, outside my window
Pretending not to notice us watching them
Cat-walkers of the world, elegant limbs
Freckled skin, roots like high heeled shoes spiralling
They’re set up for the shot, posing in breath-taking angularity
Opaque eyes staring into middle distance
Putting up with the mallards’ rub and scratch
The squirrels’ endless fitness training
But the saplings now – watch them reach
Baby-soft, greedy towards each other, each new thing
They’re not so concerned about the birds or clouds
But light, and finding a shape which fits
Just like these young voices chattering round this front room
All Bacardi Breezers and ice-cream
Only now waking up to the pleasures of the night
Not giving a jot, for the awkwardness of morning
Poplar and spruce, birch, beech and oak, elms
They’re aching to touch the sky, aching I tell you
To shake the dirt off their feet and fly
What they really want to be are birds and clouds
So they entice them into their big hair
And gorgeous arms, cooing with promises of comfort
Wishing to hold them fast, those restless things
Let me tell you about these trees here, outside my window
Pretending not to notice us watching them
Cat-walkers of the world, elegant limbs
Freckled skin, roots like high heeled shoes spiralling
They’re set up for the shot, posing in breath-taking angularity
Opaque eyes staring into middle distance
Putting up with the mallards’ rub and scratch
The squirrels’ endless fitness training
But the saplings now – watch them reach
Baby-soft, greedy towards each other, each new thing
They’re not so concerned about the birds or clouds
But light, and finding a shape which fits
Just like these young voices chattering round this front room
All Bacardi Breezers and ice-cream
Only now waking up to the pleasures of the night
Not giving a jot, for the awkwardness of morning
Page(s) 8
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