The tree by the viaduct
violently fell, splintered
in late January's storm.
It had happened at night;
left to tell stories to the worms
about when the stars
waved back.

The pigeons in our garden
didn't sleep on those
stormy early-mornings.

Spring sprouts greener
grass amongst wet moss.
Splinters raise sharp fingernails
to scratch the sky; beckoning
to the heavens that try their best
to welcome the shattered trunk.

The bough bowed to the ground,
yet buds blister their bright
colours into a burst of blossom
when spring begins to warm
the frozen pavements. A
new life - attractive pink,
romantically scattered along
its own dying bark.
Lying over the grass, ready to
return to the soil when
the last of the sweet sap dries
and the pink fades into dull brown.

But this afternoon,
blessed in cold April sunlight
the bloom of the fallen
tree seems twice
as bright against green
than it would have
against a misty grey-blue.