Singing For Mr Bear
Singing for Mr Bear on the Speckled Mountain
I stoop to pick his bilberries
My path is a thin track for deer or elk or lynx
They say he has a wife on each of the surrounding hills.
I climb into silver moss-clouds.
I start to sing
I sing out for him whose hill this is.
When I was as old as winter
clouds bleached the yellow
trapped it in a filigree of twigs
hollies were lumpen, dark, and swayed
a silent thrush scribbled
cloud closed the eye of the moon.
In sun I walked and saw
Picking wild raspberries
The berries slip easily
above the tangle of new growth, willowherb and nettles -
The sleepy hillside. Such an abundance
At the crest of a bare tree whose branches
shading the man who is pacing the earth path among them
the white ones too soon - they are tipped tea-brown
the fullness of them weighing down the twigs;
Under the weight of the rain the wisteria