by Agi Dobson
Golden elms, poplars
Oaks 100 plus years old
whose vast lower branches
reach horizontally as
wide as the tree is tall
all their leaves bright –
orange, brown, red, yellow
against a brittle-blue sky
like wading through a
psychedelic pond
colours swirl
around my ankles
as I walk
I find a sunny seat and warm
my bones in tepid afternoon sun
soon the tracery of
black branches
will be completely bare
seasons come, seasons go
I sit, till just tips of
the topmost leaves
catch the dying sun
and contemplate eternity.