Willow
Loose green tendrils hanging low
kiss the soft green earth, the bough
kneels with the wind as if in prayer,
a penitent so humble, so subservient.
A pliant bow that's unreleased,
and like to spring to heaven with a swish,
a stately, monumental king
of meadow and a murmuring stream,
in haze concealed, a misty dream,
a graceful monolith 'twould seem,
cloaked in the blue-grey hush.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
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