Father Greenseed And His Work

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

their energies

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

And The Mother Said

And the mother said
You can turn on my earth
And in a trice
My children
Will be upon
The glistening clods
To do their colonising
And consoling work.

And you may desert
The plentiful place
And turn it bland
With monoculture,
Dampen
The flourishing
With chemical
And beings augmented
And superior

All the while
Dashing yourself down.
But I will love you nevertheless.

And you may
Stricken the fertile
And the life giving,
Blemish it,
Injure it
And put it
To dust
And stone

And I will scar
For your learned eye
And then turn beautiful
With rest
And time
Fallow and forgiving.

And you may
Use me
Like your own heart used
And cut me
As your own blood flows
And deny me
As your own
Loneliness is made

In the crucible of your intention
And I will love you still
And whole

And love you
As only the land,
In its richness can

For killing is not mine
Nor
My children’s

And as the world turns
I will be
As I have been;

The force
The spirit
The energy

The lick of love
The empty space
The possibility

The lift
Behind it all,

The reason
And creativity

Rolling on, and endlessly on.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.