Cambridge tree
Witch-like,
arms outstretched,
its top
growing to a cone,
its base
wrapped in black,
its trunk –
a thousand
white tiny snakes
all going up.
This tree,
casting a spell
over cars
growling past,
over a baby
crying hard,
shows,
if you come close,
shadows of its leaves
on the rutted bark
like –
like looking over
cloud shadows over
valleys needing rain.
From an outdoor pool
In front of you,
a green hose goes
over itself.
Right,
flower heads are
orange and red together.
Left,
a bush’s leaves hang down,
lavender shoots point up.
Beyond,
you see the trees,
all their different leaves,
and,
through a gap between,
a distant hill
showing lighter green,
while through the higher leaves
overhead is blue,
blue which could be nothing
but is clearly there,
as wind moves in every place,
moves across your face.
A fallen tree
A fallen tree
is a laid out squid. See
its tendrils,
covered in barnacles,
except where there’s a break
showing white chunks of steak.
Touch, it doesn’t sting,
(though now that I’m writing
I feel a cold pain
in my fingers). Kept wet by rain,
part of the trunk
has sunk
into the earth. Feel the weight,
then catch a sight
of strings of pearls drawn from the sea bed.
Look, even Fred
who’s not yet three
can see a trough beside the tree
has fish in it,
black, flat and just as wet,
hiding underneath the mud
he turns into fish food
with a small stick.
Magic.
Flights, Issue Thirteen, August 2024
Flight of the dragonfly 