The Leaves Of Hamlyn

The plans that explained how the tree

fathered a child

were lifted by a wind

and carried past the swaying curtain and open window

into the streets built as prostrate towers of Babel.

The plans remembered when they were bark,

imitated the behaviour of crisp leaves

and danced the secret shadowy tales

watched by bare trees

that silently stood as audience,

mute, blind

yet able to understand the craft,

the man.

The leaves lead him into another winter,

the golden dance turned to putrid carcass.

Trees scarecrow the fears villagers

suppress by building bonfires

to pass anxieties through.

Pinocchio buried his son yesterday
while the leaves
gathered like children at a concert,

sad
and pleased they were not the only fallen.

That night
wind pushed thoughts hard against his mind,

as if it were a transparent pane onto that other plane

where he could hear again
the  child’s remembered voice.

It sounded liked a leaf
scraping across the concrete footpath if only he

had the ears to hear.

In the morning Pinocchio raked, burnt the leaves,

watched the smoke rise above the houses,

felt the ache beneath his left ribcage

as if his heart
was a leaf preparing to depart.