August Poem by Nicholas Green

They have become still as figments at a wake.
They stand, sun-meditating.
They are post-diluvial,
Stretching in the dry sun.

They are now awake.
They catch gold filaments
And turn them into patient fronds.

There is a gentle motion, yes;
But this is no more than the coming
To rest of a bustle at the end of hurry.

It hangs where gravity has put it.
It is like the sun that feeds it, give or take.
But what tree feeds a sun?
Nonesuch, and the fabled palaces
Of a callous season that has
Drowned its flocks in ecstasy.

Now we are all a bit agog.
We are hoping for a long azure,
And days painted by cobalt hands.
For now, winter can go hang.
We will even fetch the hangman.
He is notched in wood, drunk on the
Habit of gravity's massacre.
So we let him slumber on.

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