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





Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s