Winter 2005-6

Michael Baron

The Day-Dream Tree

She painted the tree
as she had always done
from colour of rainbows,
a branch a hogshair brush
twigs specks of burnt sienna,
leaves stabs of Hooker's Green
slicked in by a palette knife
sharp as thorns.

Left it to dry,and
closing the door quietly
-the way a lover goes-
overnight, alone, content,
she dreamt top-soil ,compost, mould,
the sexy in-and -out earth-worm slither.
Waking,unsurprised,smelt broken earth,
saw curtains opening on clays made gold,

turned a key, the door rustling
into a garden and the tree
was heavy with blossom, boughs
bent with it ,spread with it
out of windows over the street.
All day people filled baskets of petals,
told their children,
who told their friends.

When night knocked like a shy policeman,
the tree surrendered, defenceless
exhausted from so much fecundity,
such wild lust to be alive,
became an ordinary lovely thing.
Flat. Another canvas, paint-laden,
hoist to a cheap easel for old voyeurs
to touch,desire,ask how much ?




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