Stilled by weight of sunshine
fixing their contours in a mould
of light, lime trees
have gestures as convulsively immobile
as a Byzantine ikon;
and mosaics of mottled leaves
are pressed into the air, set,
not to be shattered by wind
that has to do with time.
Framed in an unblinking eye
the scene seems no more living
or capable of movement
than the turquoise tendrils traced
on this quiet vase
which holds severed roses
red against the blue enamelled sky.
