by Robin Fulton Macpherson
I pause in front of the hawthorn tree.
The hawthorn pauses in front of me.
Each of us seems to be on the way
The last time I saw the hawthorn tree
he looked more than old. I was seven.
He never got round to telling me
We seem to pause beside each other
as if one of us were still alive
and one dead. We have so much to say
say anything. We have time enough.
The wind in his leaves and in my hair
seems unlikely to tell us to hurry