Lyn Moir
Lombardy poplars
These stately trees, aspiring to the grace
of heaven with their upper branches starched,
line up on roadsides, measuring the march
Napoleonic troops took. In-your-face
invaders, alien to our island race,
patently less romantic than our birch,
more pushy than the shy, retiring larch,
and foreign in a xenophobic place.
As double refugees, they come disguised
as Lombard, North Italian, echoing
preoccupations of Renaissance man.
They blend into our landscape, borrowing
identity from paintings. They are spies,
shapeshifters smuggled from Afghanistan.
Page(s) 41
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