Nearest is the blossom tree
A few cherry-red leaves
Among the swathes of green
They dance, as if ballet dancers
Encouraged by the breeze
They move with a lover’s sense of joy
At least that is my perception
After reading Mr Palomar
Before Carol Anne Duffy’s Rapture
Sensuous, sensual, sexual, sensational
Curves, movement of wild abandon
A soft-skin smile of surface texture
As if the arm, as if the calf, as if the thigh
No one will ever know; why, or how
As the whispers quieten in stillness
The taller branches
Sway so so willingly behind
It is their courteous, yet dominant serenade
