The Elm and The Oak
...and against the setting sun, silhouettes;
dark as india ink on fine white linen, bare branches
reaching, brushing the underbelly of the sky.
Brittle and dark and spider thin,
drawn by the expert hand of God
and Nature; bowing and leaping forth in the wind,
with an artist's grace they seem to paint the heavens.
Arcing across the sky with purple and gold,
bursts of orange and sweeping brushstrokes of red.
Painting, perhaps, the splendour they wear only briefly
at summer's end.
dark as india ink on fine white linen, bare branches
reaching, brushing the underbelly of the sky.
Brittle and dark and spider thin,
drawn by the expert hand of God
and Nature; bowing and leaping forth in the wind,
with an artist's grace they seem to paint the heavens.
Arcing across the sky with purple and gold,
bursts of orange and sweeping brushstrokes of red.
Painting, perhaps, the splendour they wear only briefly
at summer's end.
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