Gary Bills
Uplands Farm
I still miss the winds that gather there
And make a vortex of the fallen leaves
Beneath the window - hornbeam, ash and apple,
The eerie swirl of time not letting go.
And I still miss the sunlight on the pine,
The way, some evenings, its praying height would glow,
A sudden transformation of its bark,
As startling as the touch of wistful Midas.
Come night, the owls would cluster round our roof
And hoot us into sleep by repetition.
Though winter's dark had never been so dark,
If spirits talked, they kept their voices low.
Page(s) 24
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