While He Sleeps

Photo by Magic Madzik (copied from Flickr)
Photo by Magic Madzik (copied from Flickr)

My steps spill rain from trees and the trees reveal the old dream faces. I write to them and Rhys sleeping and Lucy who lives in these woods. Apologies, stream of consciousness, echo poems dying for the echo: I roll these notes in leaves with ribbons bright enough to catch their eyes. In the hollows and deep branches I slip these scrolls in abandoned nests and coloured bottles. Under the bitter cherry my diary with the belts and the pin on a string, I keep it buried: the hole and earth under my nails, all the invisible living.