Thursday Poem

I planted three trees, for privacy
and for feeling near to the soil.
Three ferns, two a fairer shade
of green, the middle one a clone
of my father’s dark spire.
(One Spring, he swapped his violin
for a spade).

I planted three trees.
Leisurely climbers, I loved them,
suddenly taller when I turned
to look at them again.
Perhaps I planted them too close.
The wind blows in from the sea
and they seem to conspire
against me.

I planted three trees.
It snows. Sand hurries
through the kitchen’s hourglass.
I am nearer the soil
than ever I intended to be.
Above me

three, fern-haired men
point to the cold stars,
all is silence, but for a spade
played out of key.
.