Leap Year on Gipsy Hill

Down Gipsy Hill
something was said
no hasteners could hear.

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

Each one sounded the mists
tuned
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.