the sun pulls the tree by the hair || running its fingers through curling branches || its bent light
caressing barky thighs || listen! the winnowing winds, they churn an Arcadian rustle || of cachinnating
leaves || drunken bacchanal under the trees || of grass freckled like a thrush’s breast || grown heady after
sipping sanguine sunshine || of birdsong like the wail of an oboe || golden shards pierce through ||
the tree, its arms outstretched || quivers against the frothing mouth of an ageing sky, whose
fleece-strewn belly bears a hungry sun || it pulls the tree by the hair || it leaks through the canopy crack
and leaps across the forest floor.
6 February, 2021