Nothing the hedgerows say
I’m enclosed by encrypted conversation:
thickets of pulses and whistles and clicks. Songs.
Each border with a voice distinct as a man’s –
each tree, a tongue. I hear the grass gossiping,
repeating what it thinks the wind has told it;
hear it whisper a secret from blade to blade,
rush it away in all directions at once.
Silence from me and the water overhead,
now a dragon, now a sleeping boy. Dumb shapes,
fathoming nothing. Nothing the hedgerows say.