The Veil Of May

The Veil of May

No more than a week and the leaves

have all come out on the ash trees

now they are more than half open

on the ancient walnuts standing

alone in the field reaching up

through the mute amazement of age

they have uncurled on the oaks from

hands small as the eyelids of birds

and the morning light shines through them

and waits while the hawthorn gleams white

against the green in the shadow

in a moment the river has

disappeared down in the valley

the curve of sky gliding slowly

from before not seeming to move

it will not be seen again now

a while from this place on the ridge

but over it the summer will

flow and not seem to be moving