Rotund and acrobatic tits explored
Bud-studded branches on our tallest birch tree,
A picture that came straight from her adored,
Delightfully composed chinoiserie.
My girl was four weeks dead before that first
Green haunting of the leaves to come, thickening
The senses with old hopes, an uncoerced
Surrender to the story of the Spring.
In summer, after dinner, we used to sit
Together in our second floor’s green comfort,
Allowing nature and her modern inwit
Create an indoor dusk, a room like art.
‘If only I could see our trees,’ she’d say,
Bed-bound up on our third floor’s wintry height.
‘Change round our things, if you should choose to stay.’
I’ve left them are they were, in the leaf-light.