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.”