by Lesley Saunders

for a calligrapher

All these feathery notations of pollen-fall &
seed-scatter, all these burred & hair’s-breadth
souls, all these friable clocks & keys, purses,
ears, all these microbial explosions & quantum
float-aways, are green secrets the wind keeps
or doesn’t, flimsies the stream spins away

or home – as if someone had grumbled ‘all flesh
is grass’ & you had quietly taken up your ink
& brush, then with your cursives & skilful
ligatures begun gilding the world’s smithereens.