In this glade, some nod, as ancient bluebells do;
May billows tease a unison of tremors, fillip
light and shadow. Ingenues, shoulders bare,
quiver in their debutante layers; seasonal
lanceolate skirts frisked by paw, claw and foot,
disgorged naive from burrow, bank, set.
Underground, a choir swells in rhizome, corm, tuber;
woodwind voices' quiet spread in loam rich earth.
Crowd control, a parasol, of Elm, Ash and Oak;
all deadlines set before judiciary of Yew.
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edit 26.07.10
Comments
maggyvaneijk | May 10, 2010 - 21:29
you have an amazing talent for detail, this poem is almost a collection of words that work together so well.
lenchenelf | May 11, 2010 - 14:20
Thanks for reading Maggy, much appreciated atb Lena xx