He travels in the secret of the night,
moving on moon beams
and star sent messages.
On the wind too, he walks.
As he moves he rustles
as if he plays the breeze with his fingertips.
And those digits
are woody and knotted
yet supple as the curling vine.
His face is verge of mischief
and the unkept beard,
a hedgerow masterpiece
whiskered with unruly grass.
If his eyes were a conker’s shine
he would own a chestnut glance
but much more,
for they are shooting
surely as when spring inspires
to break the woody carapace,
and yet there is a green tinge
to the white wonder of his seeing;
Oh yes, oh yes there really is!
His bark laugh is the humorous same
as his quick eyes
and just as warm
as the mammalian heart,
though the sap is not viscous hot
but cool sweet honey dew.
Did I mention his hair?
The willow would be shamed
though his is not weeping but platted:
but still the wind plays,
and those low branches
dangle quite mysterious
so he must sweep aside
once in a storm filled while.
If ever there was a cloak
then he wears it:
and the moon might lose itself
in its forest folds,
and the vale too might be snuggled
as it’s creatures scurrying
on a blackberry and foxglove floor.
And now to his work,
for this be his reason and magic:
his green fingered love of seasons told.
First the winter – dead of earth:
where he waters and plans.
And then to the spring:
where he stoops to each friend
and coaxes the bud delicate.
And to this he breathes
his loam breath
and whispers succulence
to pale leaf-lets
in their parasol and first yawning.
And then summer:
where his nights are short and warm
and sometimes scent filled,
where he stands proud and bold,
wide eyed and watchful
as any owl,
admiring each of his delightful flowers.
And then the rich autumn:
where his desires and dreams
are a seed pod in multitude.
For when he walks there is a scattering,
and fertile sparks come off him
in droppings and ricochets,
as if the night contained
the whole of something
and much more beyond time’s now.
And as he strides the land,
his mischief smile somehow commands
his bough arms and his finger tips,
to spit and flick
the pips of newness
in every direction:
his delight and charm in one,
that he might hide the seeds of his creation,
plant wherever so he shouldn’t,
obey the only rule
worth a leaf’s weight
and cast hither and thither
the riddle of the rampant plant,
that knows no bounds
and tries and hopes
in every crevice to the world there found.
And so, too his intended:
to germinate and split
the kernel or the nut or the seed
and free the cornucopian light,
release it to the unwitting world,
like his life
and his evergreen smile.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
4 thoughts on “Father Greenseed And His Work”
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I had a feeling you would like that one! Thanks
This is just ….. I had no words to explain my feeling…. You manage with your poem to transport me in to that reality. I felt felt loved, cared for, protected and growing at the same time I was loving, caring for, protecting and I felt the magical growth of life. I was able to blend with the Spirit of It All…. THANK YOU!! ❤☺
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Gosh, you really did. That is very gratifying to hear. I’ve really enjoyed writing those pieces – for pretty much the same reason as you’ve expressed when reading them – so it gives me great heart that they’ve been enjoyed. I’ve found my longer pieces to be less popular generally but I consider them some of my best!
Thanks very much for letting me know.