Apple Trees
T Tom Billsborough
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An apple ripens,
Bends the highest bough,
Beyond our reach, outstretching.
Suspended too, the skylark's
Alto trilling blends
So many notes
Together in a single second,
Beyond our reach, our understanding.
And yet our dreams grow tall
In our attempts to mime
In lyrics of a rhyme
The song-bird's complex call
And deep space probes
Ascend, by sling-shots flung,
And bend along the universe
Towards the highest boughs
Of light where supernovae ripen.
To reach them is our ultimate conceit.
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