From the highest bough (Photo: Faye Sarras)

Beneath the arms to gardens outstretched
Scales retiring soften the toes below
Pillows making paved mattresses
Soon rain sleeping is woven to snow
Swept together the lawn to clear
Slept in weather, no cold to fear
My soul descends from the highest bough
When the tree loves the forest, then I know how.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..