Pin Parasol

Narrow streets of our old town
twist and turn, ramble down
steeply pitched brick palisades-
peaked cornices of gull gray slate
gather round like chimney- topped Alps
and you could be walking home
from the bakery, turn right and sight
a glimpse of Wuthering Heights…
(look out for Heathcliff’s dog, he bites)

Great pines splayed against the blue
rearing over the turreted chateau
shake with vivid drama
rugged trunks naked to the sea wind
like bold survivors of apocalypse
somehow merely common to the neighborhood-
giraffes holding parasols on the lawn
sheltering the croquet match anon

It’s curious to see nature in such apt array
with each exquisitely angled branch just so
not one green needle set awry
as if attended by artisan Sensei bonsai
perfection achieved one hundred meters up
inviting falcons, lightning or Norse gods
(and oddball dreamers hiking by)
to touch boughs from which dreams are launched
into perfectly blending evening sky




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