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A Copse

A shrub copse rides a hillock near a fishing town. After the sun shutters dim to dark, Shadows lengthen, enlarging into blacknesses. Crickets ratchet down their temperatures. The earth cools in wan mirages. Time lapsed, the stars make A slow, quiet carousel of lights. They circle far above us disengaged. Wings of crows scoop pools of air, Then dive down their open maws On tiny, furred crawlers shocked stock still. Crows chalk their caws across the night. The copse will grow into a stand of oaks. The kind young people like to climb. Gnarled limbs reminding them of fiction sailing ships. Hand over fist to where the topmost rigging is. For now, people and trees are bottled on a shelf. At dry dock like some whittled models are. Until the oak is christened keel and frame And young ones live their lives and livelihoods at sea. (9/18/22)

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

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