It is the trees who cry out
for the day’s weight to be cast off
with only their holy riot of song,
imagining their own birds,
brilliant with their own suns.
It is the trees who leap
in the sudden night, whose day-boughs
heavy with closed moth wings
light up and fill the streetlamps
with escape and glory – do not believe
in anything less. It is the trees
who weep openly, who make the tarmac
run with grief, who summon mud
and ruin from under their own roots
in incandescent vengeance
for breathing things and – finally –
it is the trees, only the trees,
who hurl their unforgiving trunks,
whole and indisputable, through
our disbelieving, wind-smashed eyes.
Tim Kiely’s poetry has been published in South Bank Poetry, Morning Star, Under the Radar, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and the Emma Press anthology Everything That Can Happen.