I will speak no more of
Willow trees
And white sycamore branches
Against a blue sky
I will speak no more of arms
And hands touching my
hair.
In the morning I make the coffee
In the evening ,
In the water the oil makes rainbows
And the catfish hide in banks
Waiting
Ever waiting.
I will speak no more of
Willow trees
And white sycamore branches
Against a blue sky
I will speak no more of the
Wind
Making the trees sing
In the twilight,
Or maybe I will
Risk the cliche’
Risk the critic
And grab what I can from the
Sunset