That wakes the fine calligraphy
of trees; the dark-beaked birds
that have wintered over,
stitching up the air, waiting
for that shout of green; and here
this mariner’s star, rose of the
winds, bright flower of sun,
like a stunned bee, in the small
hours of your hand – waking
from its hive the gold the dark
has been keeping, the mind’s
tenderness to the heart, waiting
for that shout of green, we
are because love says as much.
From The Tram Conductor’s Blue Cap (page 1) by Michael Harlow
Published by Auckland University Press
Used with the permission of Auckland University Press
This poem has been posted as part of the Tuesday Poem scheme
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