A Stand
of Trees
A stand of trees.
It's the stillness of the word
that works so well.
Like sentinels
standing
shoulder-to-shoulder,
straight trunks, tapering
up
far above my head.
Where they endure, year after year,
and if left undisturbed
will long outlast me.
I take refuge
Where they endure, year after year,
and if left undisturbed
will long outlast me.
I take refuge
in its welcoming shade,
as if entering the towering vault
as if entering the towering vault
and thick stone walls
of a cool cathedral.
The same distilled light,
having made its way
through illuminated windows
translucent leaves.
And the purity of sound,
where intimate whispers
of a cool cathedral.
The same distilled light,
having made its way
through illuminated windows
translucent leaves.
And the purity of sound,
where intimate whispers
carry unaccountably clear,
raised voices
are softly diffused.
A wood, or thicket, or copse
would not affect me so strongly.
Because there is a calm
in a stand of trees,
a sense of permanence.
Even as early morning fog
makes them seem unearthly.
The shifting veil of white
eerily distancing,
raised voices
are softly diffused.
A wood, or thicket, or copse
would not affect me so strongly.
Because there is a calm
in a stand of trees,
a sense of permanence.
Even as early morning fog
makes them seem unearthly.
The shifting veil of white
eerily distancing,
thin tendrils of mist
witchily twisting
in and out.
Which sun
will soon burn off.
While the impassive trees
silently drink,
thirsty for water and light.
witchily twisting
in and out.
Which sun
will soon burn off.
While the impassive trees
silently drink,
thirsty for water and light.
Every once in a while, another tree poem overcomes me. Like
dog poems, I know I should resist, but can't. I say this because I know I've
written it all before: same poem, over and over; just different words.
I know I'm treading dangerously close to cliché here, since the image of the forest as sanctuary is hardly original. So I hope I kept it interesting enough to hold the reader's attention.
The key, though, is the connotation of stand; reinforced by such words as stillness, undisturbed, refuge, calm, permanence, impassive. The trees are sentinels,
unmoved by man's transient conceits, impassively overseeing our follies and
vanities. So perhaps "cathedral" is particularly apt, since there is
a strong undertone of pagan nature-worship here.
I like the subtle paradox implied by the ending. Because at
the same time as they seem inanimate –
unmoving, silent, almost permanent – they are not only greedily
drinking, but performing the marvellous feat of turning energy into matter, of
living on light.
~~ ~~
(I'm sure I could have found a much better picture: I'm thinking of cedars, wreathed in mist. But the first picture -- the one on top -- is the actual one that triggered the poem. I came across it illustrating an Atlantic article from May 15 2015 called "Tapping a Maple on a Cold Vermont Morning".)
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