Thursday, September 1, 2016

Old Man

The tyre hanging in the garden
is proof that children used to  play there;
but in the breeze it’s a shaking head.

Today snowflakes flying by
leave the sycamore white on its northern side.
The garden is still: no snowman, no footprints.

The tyre is an old man;
with an old voice, he explains:  
“I cannot remember names; truth is

I hung too close to the trunk to be of use;
the sycamore branches bolted upwards;
to this day they’ve never spread out.”  

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