Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2010

The Secret Life of Woods

by Winston Plowes

The hawkmoth dries
his fledgling wings
and searches for a mate.
 
The ash puts down
its prying roots,
cleaving the rocks apart.
 
And yet, I cannot hear it.
 
The fern uncoils
its cello’s head,
and nods towards the dew.
 
The chestnut’s eye
opens its halves,
then squints into the day.
 
And yet, I cannot hear it.
 
The mushroom casts
its drift of spores,
which moulder in the mulch.
 
The oak tree turns
its once green leaves
to fingered plates of gold.
 
And yet, I cannot hear it.
 
I cannot hear these secret songs
but like the child who
lost the hand it held  –
I am deafened by their beauty.

Added: 12.04.2010

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