The fuller leaves are ridged, the newer red.
Sunshine is pooled over them, like lacquer.
One branch catches a notion of movement,
shivering, then the rest cotton on in a rush
roused by the wind, to thrash and vacillate.
A toss-up, where they’ll all go next – to lash
around through summer until autumn, that
is where; to fall. May it be managed lightly
though it could well turn wilder beforehand.
Tree watched from my sickbed, read to me.
Read from the hymnal of frank life – of how
to be old, yet never rehearse that fact cosily.