Nocturne

The trees, and their sea green leaves
are caught in golden light
as the sun goes gulping like a carp
through jet streams and glass

to bury its face in a bed of pebbles.
The trees, smell like being young,
mint & algae, dead frog of bruises
that told tales among the plums

that like a lush drank up their puddle
in a dream of the garden of youth.
The trees, that tonight crane their necks
through the window, over the cradle,

singing to the newborn a grey song
that it will dribble on, softly nightfall
as the planet burps and rolls over.
The trees, go back to sleep, shh

that are holding up a star pricked canopy
as dinosaurs come plodding, wise and sad
down the silent avenues, beneath
the scabby arms of our loving forest.

The trees, you are peaceful now
that glower in a galaxy of towns
crying about the past, blind with grief
and your dinosaurs are forever real now,

stalking hugely into the deep black river.
The trees, on a long blind pilgimage
go sleepily back down messy lanes
dressing themselves in hay and flowers,

napping in the land of donkeys
with their heads buried in their roots.
The trees cat call you at dawn,
you are lost under white sheets

waking into a dalmation world.
The blackbirds are bursting from the pie
as the trees rip livid from the earth
and thunder as a choir into the atmosphere.

As you rise in smoke and sweat and robes
the trees are bickering in the clouds.