Likestarlings

The nameless tree

I used to know my name when it was presence.
Our little copse would watch our acorns
plummeting down, singing their freedom song,
into the mouth of godmamma earth.

Now I’m alone. My catastrophic brothers
have been felled and sawn into body parts.
No more shaking off our secret letters,
no more children

crouching in the hedgerows like ground birds
talking about horses pinned to the hillside like flies,
sheep stapled beside them, tiny stones
on the ground with their shadows like black teeth.

They seemed to know the importance of plovers,
and their glove-like wings, the facts of the Underworld
and the need to curse like men.
I could hear their hearts beating as they crept out

into the steaming sun, into the light which fell
into the brambles and burst like seed pods.
Now, they’d have to come by boat. The meadow
is flooded and barren, although

sometimes, through my watery eyeglasses,
I see angels reflected. But truly what is left to me
is trenchfoot and buttercups and praying
for the wisdom to live in this colour grey sameness.