There is no finer junction in the spectrum
by David Lewiston Sharpe
Than that abutment found of blue and green,
Not gold and silver’s marriage as electrum
Will ever be the equal, nor has it ever been.
For as I walk this forest’s bridle path,
And glance around amid the Summer shafts –
Breaking through branches in the season’s wrath –
This clash accords with wondrous natural crafts.
The trees lean in and cover up the aisle
Of sand and stones, in an arched procession
Down which this traveller ambles by the mile,
The leafy vault will offer no concession:
The sky’s blue will be always at this distance
From the earthy green, by virtue of insistence.