Willow 1
Loose green tendrils hanging low,
kiss the soft green earth, the bough
kneels with the wind
as if in prayer, a penitent so
humble and predictable, and
just the same as others of its kind;
a pliant bow
that's unreleased, yet like to spring
to heaven with a wish,
a stately, monumental king
of meadow and a murmuring stream,
in haze conceal'd, a misty dream,
a graceful monolith 'twould seem,
cloaked in a blue-grey hush.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2015
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