Pleached Limes

by Michael Keeling

It was where
the pleached limes
bordered the green walk
to the emerald stage
whereon the actors played.

In the summer evening
the scent of lilies
hung on the still air
and minstrels
sent madrigals to the moon.

In the soft light
we stayed for silence
and when alone
the only sound
was the whisper of trees.

In the middle morning
when the limes’
shadows shortened
and drowsy was the air,
we were no longer there.

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