
Twisting on itself
the magic faraway tree,
poses for dreamers.

Twisting on itself
the magic faraway tree,
poses for dreamers.

Gathering of weeds,
basking in the spring sunshine,
colonise footpaths.

Seeking approval,
looking demurely downwards—
three-cornered leek blooms.

A sea of roses
at the top of their careers
waiting to be picked.

The city is still,
from ashes branches protrude
bare from winter’s bite.