Hazel Hall


Needle, you make me remember things . . .
A path through a wood that ran like wine,
A turn, and the bubbling smell that clings
Close as breath to the lips of springs
Where the sun is sprinkled fine.

Needle, you have a path to run
Where never the boughs of trees have met
And never has seeped the rain of the sun:
But long is the way you have just begun . . .
Needle, you make me forget.