The Leaves of the Trees

The leaves of the tress

of Southern Alberta

are preaching to me.

Fading photosynthesised homilies 

Gold against baffled bright blue

sharp sermon simple,

“Change is coming.” 

The surprise September snows

snaps them scared from their pulpits.

Some prophesies are fulfilled abruptly. 

These little ministers carpet the city

rugs of them on white tiles

I return to Scotland, in October,

and in that older silver subtle light

autumn fires pulse still in the hearth

of the hills. The leaves fall damply,

slowly, so that I can see them.

Change coming to earth. 

Horse chestnut hands

spin flames in their spiralled descent

cradling a deeper

promise that both Ezekiel and John saw

and I too, ironically in this moment of death,

see clearly before the leaf lands.

We are on the banks of that swollen river

of yearning, life flowing from a throne,

always green leaves,

healing nations, 

and me a minister with naked branches

longing for the salt waters 

to be made fresh.