Glossing The Spoils 

TREE

For H.D.

On the bank of the river,

he sees a tall tree:

from roots to crown one half is aflame

and the other green with leaves.

Peredur Son of Evrawg

She passes through a charred wall,

door blown off, its skeletal

frame leaning inwards. The drone

of the bombing squad begins to fade,

as an eerie music like wind through the ribs

of some large thing grows louder,

rising over the rubble, stirring her

to cry and laugh and wish to sleep,

not knowing whether, like a dreamer

on the bank of the river,

she is there or not. For this music,

makes her feel invisible, apart,

as if ascending its ladder of rippling notes,

away from all plague and ravage,

or is she climbing an arched bridge

through mists, vaulted steeply

over brown water? Or in a crowd,

is she following a man who talks to himself

while entering a city square? Only 

he sees a tall tree

 as if it were a scepter raised

to still the trampling feet of the crowd.

Or is he the tree’s guardian seated

on a low mound like a young lord,

pointing to the paths leading from it,

from this May tree with its many names:

Lady of the Snows, Primavera,

Gala, Melba, Beauty of Stoke,

Red Sleeves, Scarlet Flame?

From roots to crown one half is aflame,

has been aflame, this half-scorched,

stricken tree, come so near

like a maimed immortal bearing the seal

of death, as if to prepare for a burial.

She bows and weeps, bows and weeps

to see how its other half cleaves

to life: sinewy branches, plump red buds

widening into white petals, and the tree—

one half is dead—so she believes—

and the other green with leaves.