Botanic Psalm

(Excerpt from a forthcoming collection of poetry celebrating the Spring beauty of the south-eastern Isle of Wight[1]. It was written among olive trees.)

The soil is dry
and leaves glass-tint
the olives, unborn
in May sun.

The scent of clementine
in the birdsong’s spark.

The citrus sun,
in silver-crimson
shoals of wine-blossom,
bled in the air.

Manes of purled olive-psalms
sing from the roots.

Gold-silent embers
in the air’s warm hands;
the owl’s spring is born
in honey-fur and light.

The vine waits
for feather-fruits
to heal a grieving child.

The light-fawn sun
gives the kiss of peace
as I wait for the page’s magnolia leaf.

The olive-wine syllable
is sweet, and the wedding at Cana
repeats: the magpie’s calligraphy
in the rosé leaves.

Oil-light loaves
distilled into Time;
take this and eat:
partaking of rhyme
no one mourns the robin
with leaves as dark as wine.

Sun-studded earth
is white wine for the eye –
how long will you be here
in poinsettia cries.

The silver-seraph plume
ablaze in shadow
with chalice-cream palms
cupped for Poiesis.



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