there's a prose
poem growing in that tree
the roses which have climbed
almost to the top.
Yellow roses, old fashioned
and sweet scented.
Can you hear the poem?
If you listen carefully it speaks for itself.
No, I never planted it,
it seeded itself along with the campion
and the hollyhocks.
This is a wild garden where plants happen,
are content to be left alone.
Unusual to have poems in trees?
Not really. The birds read them
before they settle for the night.
They sing them aloud, learn them by heart.
At first light every word becomes clear.
Anne Beresford poetry |