Gedicht
Kathleen Jamie
The Wishing Tree
The Wishing Tree
The Wishing Tree
I stand neither in the wildernessnor fairyland
but in the fold
of a green hill
the tilt from one parish
into another.
To look at me
through a smirr of rain
is to taste the iron
in your own blood
because I hoard
the common currency
of longing: each wish
each secret assignation.
My limbs lift, scabbed
with greenish coins
I draw into my slow wood
fleur-de-lys, the enthroned Brittania.
Behind me, the land
reaches towards the Atlantic.
And though I’m poisoned
choking on the small change
of human hope,
daily beaten into me
look: I am still alive—
in fact, in bud.
© 2004, Kathleen Jamie
From: The Tree House
Publisher: Picador, London
Published with kind permission of the author and Picador (http://www.picador.com/).
From: The Tree House
Publisher: Picador, London
Gedichten
Gedichten van Kathleen Jamie
Close
The Wishing Tree
I stand neither in the wildernessnor fairyland
but in the fold
of a green hill
the tilt from one parish
into another.
To look at me
through a smirr of rain
is to taste the iron
in your own blood
because I hoard
the common currency
of longing: each wish
each secret assignation.
My limbs lift, scabbed
with greenish coins
I draw into my slow wood
fleur-de-lys, the enthroned Brittania.
Behind me, the land
reaches towards the Atlantic.
And though I’m poisoned
choking on the small change
of human hope,
daily beaten into me
look: I am still alive—
in fact, in bud.
From: The Tree House
Published with kind permission of the author and Picador (http://www.picador.com/).
The Wishing Tree
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