Natural trouble

from the archives – revised and titled


Is there anybody in the park?
When I arrive there late
my fist is grazed
by the raw iron gate
but the catch slips
and I am with the trees
listening to the buzzing
of cicadas humming
Sibelius and the graceful
 wing brushing at the air

The bark holds on
a brittle magnified skin
more divine and elegant
than our sloughing cover
our coughing splutter
and gasping breath
that the trees lap up
cleaning the air

originally published without title