Perhaps this splendour is numb,
Mindful ignorance will suppose;
Though it is only natural to be sleeping.
Beneath the exquisite exterior there is a speciality,
Savouring the sunlight and the energy therein.
The grass grows up, green between the spaces
And myriad bluebell brushes stand stiff and tall
The honour of this moment!
Supple with wild verdure,
This is a new world, florid and sanguine.
A young green tree rises above,
Larger than its size,
Overlapping leaves in creation
Of the prettiest picture of natural art.
The sunlight filters through the fibres:
A living mosaic in green and gold.
The tree flexes agreeably in the wind, leaves trembling;
Though no more comely than its leafless counterpart,
For this latter wise personage is bedecked
With a thousand tiny crooked pitchforks,
Bobbing brave and crisp and youthful as ever against the wrinkled clouds;
It has seen many a storm more than its descendent.
A forest of trees fringe this pristine glade;
They sway in celestial bliss,
Yet kindled ablaze with the light of elatious colour.
This world is alive
With the clarity of passion
When decadence has been vanquished
By irreticent beauty.