Cypress I

A day of cold made wind.

Scarves return and cyclamen,

Their red fire warming sills.

 

The letter came unannounced

Yesterday asking for comment

On the removal of all the cypresses.

 

Now I must count. How many?

Ten, twelve or maybe fifteen

Huge, growing,

 

All to go?

Why? So that’s the reply

Then. It makes little sense.

 

I start preparing a new landscape

In my mind,  I place blank

Space where once grew trees

 

And nesting boxes for my flock

Of miners, butchers, and tawny owl

All returning to a fine pine home

 

Gone. But you are still here.

Tomorrow you will sway

That shuffle dance

 

Against the southerly

A solemn frolic now

Your days are numbered.

 

The cyclamen glow tonight.

Outside huge and sombre

The Italian cypress sleep.

 

 

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

 

 

 

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