The Karaka Trees

Under the roof of the karaka trees,
The firm green thatch of leaves,
No wind wanders, nor rain, nor restless light
Flits like an amber bird among the boughs,
In the still house of the karaka trees.
The sun finds not the secrets of its pool,
The moon sees hardly past its twisted door,
No star walks, a pilgrim, secure and pale,
Down the strange halls of the karaka trees –
Seaward, the woods have windows. Far away
On the unmoving blue, ripples are born
Grow and clamour as waves break, and are hushed
Before the hush of the karaka trees.
Yet through these windows, painted blue with sky,
Pearl-white with foam, green with the living grass,
Faces look out, deep eyes, incurious, watch beyond
The world beyond the warden of the trees.
There are towers, and none shall find them: there is dusk
Black as a velvet pall, and none shall say
What laughter and what loveliness lie dead,
What passing struck the lustre from the leaves,
Peopled with ghosts this palace of the trees.
There is no lover brings his lady here,
There is no sudden pause, turning away
Then their swift cleaving, fire unto steel,
In the dim house of the karaka trees.
For they would lie in darkness, and the night
Sudden be thick as velvet on their eyes.
No star would trace its cobweb on her breast,
Light up the mirrored forests in her eyes –
Sudden, a shape would quiver in his arms
Whose lips were strange, whose voice spoke secret words,
Whose hair held not the small familiar scent.
And he would be the bridegroom of the night,
Caught to the breast of one he did not know,
Under the murmuring dim karaka trees –
No lover comes, no dreamer wanders here –
Yet, were one suddenly afraid of light
The clean relentless daggers of the sun
Slashing the masks of men, or those pale lights
Carved like gold flowers in dim fantastic towns,
He might lie safely here, drowned in the dusk,
With no voice near but earth’s shy whisperings
And no companion but the soil’s brown scent
Under the roof of the karaka trees.