Where the Beeches

Where the climb and the gale stifle the debate
where the beeches face the sea defenceless
all's reduced to the splendour of great height
the last quivering leaves, like us, breathless
from the big argument. Only iron
branches elbow out on this side, the sea side,
the gale side, trunks blasted to a sheen
gun-grey, so absolute we disregard

the lapse and flux of colours too fleeing
to fix with names — green swilling over amber —
and the fields below unstable. The beeches
could recall copperiness or rustling
sweet attics diverting us all the summer
and somehow confusing clear-cut issues.

Copyright © 2003 Judy Gahagan All rights reserved
from Night Calling
Enitharmon / Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission