The old trees

How bold the old trees stand

Whose skin: warn by light

Wind rain and time

Stand almost alien

Against this oyster coloured sky.

Their new growth veins throb

And push out erect

Budded red

In a curved Venus fan

That arcs

A genuine cathedral entrance

Over the tired lines

Of the dead asphalt road

And as the asphalt snakes

Its smooth skin penetrating  

Soft hills that then spill  and split apart

They then reveal  the standing stones

Encircled.

Old ways  ripple in waves  from  here.

They call beg entice

The sacred dances 

That are ready to shatter into our small world.

ADH2014