HEYWARD HEAD
- Hayden Williams
On the hill, trees arch
like ruined churches,
sky in their windows.
Fools dip like swallows
in pools of their own shadows,
dissolve in the flame of new grass.
They hope for a lesson,
a slow-to-come sermon
not heard in the village below.
The crook of an elbow,
that's also a pillow,
hooks passing clouds like sheep:
bubbles of speech,
forever blowing, preaching
within this green steeple's reach.
• Hayden Williams lives and writes in Dunedin.
