The Blue Tree

The night the blue tree was struck by lightning,
its thicket of twigs absorbing the shock,
protecting its slender trunk, we had sat out late
in that sticky air, uncertain as to what
made us want to be there – the oppressive heat
of the house, a glint of moonlight on moths’ wings,
an odd falling star? Or the want of company,
a desire to feel we had made amends?
 
The talk was of the here, the new, the now,
we did not venture into the past. The future
was masked by night. We let silences bloom,
as what had gone before rose and settled
in the blue tree’s tangled thatch. Then the fork,
and jagged flashes lighting up the gorge.
 

Stephen Boyce

in collection, The Blue Tree, 2019, Indigo Dreams, ISBN 978-1-912876-12-9