The Yew Tree Speaks

My black fingers agitate—
I’m a tree of poems, of dead men

I’ve got a graveyard mind—
I’m a churchyard person

The cold clouds overhead—
Down below the dead

They’re deaf and dumb—
They’re all ignored

Here in Court Green—
Looking out the window

I make black statements—
Sitting at my desk

I have the blind eyes—
Of a blind pianist on a ship

I am a black yew—
Clouds scuttle by overhead

I don’t hear Beethoven—
I’m deaf and dumb to death

There is no truth to this—
No why or where to the wind

The wind, the church, the graves—
They all are a voiceless language

You/Yew and eye/I—
The tricks of morning/mourning

A world of connivance—
A graveyard of memory/amnesia

My fingers are ten trees—
Black yew, a tumult of words

An ancient Druid tower looms—
Over St. Peter’s old cemetery

My fingers are weasel noses—
They sense what’s in the yew hedge

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