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 lying on the ground, yet buds bring their bright colours into blossom 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 even brighter against green than it would have against a misty grey-blue.
(WIP) the fallen tree still blooms - it isnt ready to decay yet