Regent’s Park, November
I pick a tree, from all those rows,
ruggedly gesturing, voiceless,
braced for the fall of shaming snows,
a captive in its stark undress.
At my feet the thousand-pieces
puzzle in countless shades of brown
attests to a handful of species
whose leaves the recent winds brought down:
English oak, sycamore and plane,
dropped from nearby if not above,
plus singletons a whispering campaign
seems to have carried from some grove-
cum-library of rumours from afar –
silver maple, pin oak, liquidambar.
