Out of tarmac and flooded pipes
He bursts from the earth
Spewing a branched tongue
Wearing a leaf hood
Out of curried leaves.

Reborn on Sheepham Lane
He mocks with gnarled mouth
Our misplaced faith
Our mobile chug
Our concrete butter.

At the owl's cry
He steals our bloom
Of which there is nothing
In a world of urbane spasm
More precious to him...

That he stick wanders the paved dark
A gust of branch and twig
Watching, pining
For his relevance -
Always for his relevance.