Palms

Four palm trees near a house

rattle neighbours green and brown;

all are rising from a core

with stems that gesture into yellow,

translucent as they swish and grow:

September ancients rising from a floor.

Four palm trees near a house

orange and green, can you see

the sun catch edges on their rind,

rattling a cache of sound.

This is a soft place; sit with me,

four palms and a house behind.

Leaves are golden through the sun

and, as the early clouds begin,

I’m thirsty in my head

for a lady away asleep

from yesterday when day was gone

and now she dreams through early heat.

Late September, autumn soars

and leaves tremble their own tone,

musical in ochre air:

pleasure’s here, pleasure’s there,

our time vibrates away and then

moon no longer stirs in silver hair.

It’s hours since an ashen moon

fled the air, the sky, and soon

between the spiky leaves that blur

the air with rustle, there I hear

a breath arising softly, blow

a salty wind, a single word.

Four palm trees near a house

stained green and golden, can you see

honey fills them to the core;

the colour of her hair is more

like grey and gold, come see

and hear and feel this elemental time with me.