Leap Year on Gipsy Hill

Down Gipsy Hill
something was said
no hasteners could hear.

It was the trees that spoke
each one the sky’s firm master
light brown
and framed like a harp.

Each one sounded the mists
as an instrument of fine voice
in a light air.

On the extra day this note
no hasteners could hear,
this line of music thought
in a sweep of trees downhill,
raised harps
sounding the morning-mist
in the last day of February.

Every Leap Year’s Day somewhere allows a memory of a poem-moment on a hill.

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