The Manchester Review
Kerry Hardie
Three poems
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Today the trees were talking behind my back,
were telling those tales about silence,
how it comes when the leaves are gone,
when the wind doesn’t move around in the sky,
when the snow lies.

I remember how my mother
would stand beside the window
watching for the weather to come right.
I remember horizons,
her skirts bunched in my hands.

I want the trees to tell that other story,
the one that’s murmurous with wind and leaves,
to witness for me in the way I need.
She is old now
and she sways though no wind blows.