The Apple tree

    
 
I see a picture on the canvas
must believe it true, are the colours so ?
Ether-wards I know not whence it comes
each day it grows as in the wood
the paint still wet and shall for days
man and oils and turpentine,
rags, a brush and more . . . . . . . .
It is the more that makes the difference
I do not have that more, I have much less
so here I watch to see the apple grow,
pruned to crop each year,
engineered limbs to carry fruit
drawn for gallery walls
 
Today I walk another wood
bright sun and thickening shadows,
statuesque ranks, dark not apple green,
cathedral naves and chanting
the breeze swaying in their tops
open free, sun and midnight owl
uncompromising, stiff as marble columns
worship and belief beneath a heavy roof.
Some day, the forester, with regret and axe
will glean the tall to cart away
making toys and fences, chairs,
too soft for church; it must be oak!
 
At six came home to see again
the painting on the easel
subtle changes in its branches
naked, stark, muscular and dark,
not dressed in springtime leaf and bud.
Will the picture hold the day
and if, which, rain, sun, cloud or blue,
thunder, swirling cloud and frightened dogs?
Shall I see the leaves and flowers,
apples, blushing red and gold
weighing down the branches
sandwich, coffee and a folding chair?
 
May never be complete, or even as intended,
listen to the tree, press, to the bark,
count the heart-beat, listen to the rhymes
there is a message, do you hear?
The poet's eye and painter's ear
from first you smear the canvas,
dream a master-piece, lose your will,
the apple tree to guide your brush
your brush to guide my pen.