Tree

Like a stone ballerina,

Stands the lightness of centuries

With roots in ranges and valleys

draining an ocean of sanguine leaves

Sieving time with paper fingers

in submission to winds

A companion, holding firm on rigid rock

A restless monument in the maelstrom

A simple great mass

Exuding existence

Watching

The full moon over Blackheath dusk

is a hole

Cut through to daylight

Reflecting tweed and steam and an old mans ears

on the summit of my young London years.

A perfect waiting window above the suburbs

Following but not moving

Watching without eyes

In Grandma’s comet catching skies

A monastic bell clear through thick mountain mist

Hillsides in layers emerging

A whale rears through the surf surge sunset

Aeroplanes and cranes crowding veiled light in the siren strewn city.

When bare trees mark horizons

Will I remember sky smeared peach wheat fields?