Green leaves interrupt, and turn the sunlight
into the colour of a million emeralds, their fingers
long and thin descending fluidly in slashes
that attack the wind, then retreat, clashes
once more, dividing the air into a breeze that lingers
slyly against the curtained bough, then takes flight.

Branches reach towards the ground, unseasoned to hold
such autumn sprouting splendour, standing
Atlas-like upholding, burden-bearing
silently, hidden by the bower, comparing
and combining the darkness and the light, demanding
both to leave this sanctuary untouched by cold.

Raindrops declining upon the green, the mist
revolves around the tree with liquid reflections,
softly touching the leaves as they dance
in lurking company, leaving droplets scattered by chance
in inconsistent patterns, then retires with respectful genuflections
and settles itself, coming in the end to exist

as dew, thin filming over willow leaves.

					1976