2005
One tree, where I watch when, what I want here,
half invisible cobweb, a fly on a leaf, a cloud now;
I listen to the rumba rhythm of the Hereford train.
It’s muggy, warm, cricket turning weather
but the sky clears, for the garden to enjoy the heat;
but I quite like grass when it’s dry and yellow,
it reminds me of East Africa, before the rain.
One tree, where I watch when, what I want here;
a bread hunting sparrow, or one taking a bath,
a thrush, mouth full uncouth, a metre or two from me.
In exhausting way, it looks good in its solar attire;
the plants, I am sure though, would appreciate a jug or two;
but Europe, with its absence of big game, seems quiet,
there’s not the tension, excitement, no lion, gazelle, thorn tree.
One tree; where I watch when, what I want here;
the Sugarloaf through the gap, green moss by the trunk
a rough abstract painting, exhausting aircraft that mime.
Here, the magpie pair, enjoying cha-cha-cha gluttony,
the biting cut stubble, raw flake, unrelenting, tough.
the arguing café branch where morning birds gang;
tiny insects rush through in miniature time.
One tree, where I watch when, what I want here;
purple flower, twisting tendril metre high,
a white flower on its own, the hippy breeze on the go.
The pruned branches crackle, maybe mocking,
getting their own back with a laughing cut or two,
pricking the unwary, like a gutting fish
able to inflict a postponing woe.
Or maybe, of course, they’re watching me…
