Sycamore on Sycamore
Foreign body
Outside the window
Dead centre
Of the white frame.
Green flames lick the iron-fisted wind,
Severe life, at times serene
In silence
Yet stiffly calling all the same.
Youngest of large beings
From earth to sky
Angel, miracle,
On veined wings
Descended?
Or evil, alien root
From 'another land'
Ascended?
