A Marvel, on a High Hill
A marvel, on a high hill, a marvel!
a tree of copper with a silver bole,
weighed down with fronds of glass.
No lies, I promise. The mist was rising
from the near slopes, the wind blew crisp,
the leaves as the wind stirred them shifting
endlessly, endlessly: crystal feathers
muttering a tune random as rainfall
or the crackling notes of a fire.
What a trap for the sky’s last light!
And for me, too. I stood there under a spell.
My brow was brushed by frozen light; my boots
ground glittering shards.
And my heart, my heart was open to the sky,
and the tree’s whisper,
and the wind’s piercing.
Published in The Coffee House, Issue One, Spring 1999
© Gillian Spraggs, 1999, 2006
page added to site on 25 February, 2006 |
last modified 23 July, 2007