The Apple Tree

   
        
    
I see a picture on the canvas    
believe it true, are the colours so ?    
Ether-wards I know not whence    
each day  growing as in a wood    
paint wet and shall for days    
man and oils and turpentine,    
rags, a brush and more   ..   ..    
more  makes the difference    
I do not have that more, I have much less    
so here I watch  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  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.