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Voices
Always voices
to and fro
are they the wind
coming close
they seem to be
just here at your
shoulder under
the trees strangers
who worked this green
acre who raised
lynchets in the grassland
who passed
into the earth
as if they sleepwalked
are they speaking
to you they
are in the trees
are in the bitter
apples that
survive the frost
what could they say
they rise
from the corrugated
earth again they
are not here
Dark Fire
Flames in the orchard
and the tarry
sweet smell of wood
as it burns
smell sweet as a rite
and the dark
tar ooze
from the burning wood
as long ago and far
away the first
man made fire and saw
that it was good
and long and far
in the dark past
the first apple is still waiting
in the tree
where the hot sap
concentrates
and returns to that dark
seed where the first
apple planted itself
in the black
earth in the black
time of the year
Poetic Voices
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