The Larch

I ran to see the larch again

up on the gentle wooded hill

and let the sweeping branches trail

across my cheek and through my hair.

 

Each little tuft of needles stood

fanned along those curving boughs

a tender green, and in between

starred buds pricked out in dusky pink.

 

This is where we sometimes met

beneath the larch’s graceful veil,

the coltsfoot gleaming at our feet

like burnished coins, a treasure trove.

From here I watched the melting mist

unravel from the dripping groves;

then thought I saw you pass close by

but choose a different path instead.

I slept against the whispering larch,

the sun burnt up the hours till noon

and as the larks soared high to sing,

I knew you would not come again.

 

©Sue Burley