Big trees beat the air with sperm
Lazily dreaming it all up above
A flat suburban sea
That the path has fallen, only slipped
Off down, slurry and talus, white
Splintered trunks about the house-size rocks
Somehow this becomes more dangerous, addictive
As bright flowers, friendliness or lyric grace
That flies suddenly in alarm, tail cocked up
At those impossible harmonies that the light does
Project across it all, etching finely each evening
Every leaf of every tree in glory, saved
But not rejecting the banal, the sweet lilt
Of this place's custom and names: where Yearnor
Enfolds, a damp cleft
"Let not your heart be troubled"
Is the concluding message of the dead
And to her: the stream one constant music
A move into a dream of composed and transcendent happiness
Spilt theory under green light, movement
And the exposed and hopefilled scents
Of a world grown up around and through
Us, walking to and fro along this path