Thursday, 21 November 2013

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,
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.

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