Purity
What if, when books were opened, we found leaves,
Not leaves of books, but autumn leaves, of elms
And maples, sycamores, or fragrant sheaves
Of deer tongue shoots, vanilla in their realms
Of soul. What if, when volumes opened, they
Revealed the acorn cups, broad forms of trees
The limbs of Cercis siliquastrum, fey
With luscious pink of blossoms, and a breeze
Through branches of the widest oaks from long
Ago that prophesied across a glen
That England would continue green and strong,
A prophecy like Augustine’s Amen?
What if, when scrolling words on vellum rolled
Out, we could hear May’s Galahad voice scold?
