Shallow Bays Walk Behind

Doth seven trees a copse make?

I.

 

Trees swift and sway about without my help,

And alas. Fortnight ‘pon fortnight,

I near not glance.

(Beings never do)

Doth the wind fault on me?

Remorselessly so-

In a field of antiquity in rows-

That pales beneath a stroke of time.

As we both now,

(You and I)

whirl,

backwards.

 

II.

And when Autumn breaks its final fall

Doth these trees savor thine call?

-Catch me now -When I sing-

-To reflect these small mirror’d things

That in the sky show their beaut

As deaf becomes the player’s lute

(I glance now at you,

With songs stuck inside your hair.)

 

III.

 

And now I rest,

For some time.

Before the trench,

Fills it’s vines,

With myself.

‘Pon it’s knees,

Before we find,

A sanctity,

For your love,

and your hate,

That climbs above,

And hits stars straight.

As we flutter with them

(You and I)

To hear Kingdom come

As they swerve you nigh.