It is the walk back
from the Paradise Garden
where a blind composer

has tap, tap, tapped
the hundred wells that live
within the village houses.

Behind blue shutters
he feeds down a pale
long rope of hands

and lets the springs
put eyes in all his fingers.
Now he hangs

an Autumn tree with music
which sheds itself
leaf by leaf by leaf,

this real, golden tree,
shivering with eyes,
hands, fingers.