Foreboding Poem by Richard Blanch

See how it rises, like a tree, green
Into the sky. It is Methuselah, an elm between
Whose branches clouds entrench and rains fall,
Of the leaves’ own making. It s a hall
Of music. It is You and I, and what we are
And what we have made. Invisible from afar,
Unseen even by us till we found this place,
This time, then in an instant sprung when your face
Turned to mine. A dangerous implanting-
Suggests there may be horrors haunting
The shade. If one should think of them,
Then would they too spring up so? Perhaps, from a gleam
Of impatience in your eye. And do not say, ‘Let us stick to facts.’
For this is an elm, is wood. There may be axes.