Taller than they have any right to be
Like stalagmites on a cave floor
They stretch ever upward.
A dark moss green
Ringed with flat leaves at every stage,
And at their crest
When they have reached as near to the sun as they can
A sudden burst of bright gold.
Whether they imitate that great star or reflect it,
I do not know,
But all that splendour is a glittering mask of distraction.
The real gold lies buried in the dark
Revealed with muddy hands
Pale, gnarled roots, obscenely bulging
Blind fingers reaching wildly in the gloomy loam.
These are the earth's prize.
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