Root and Branch
The magnolia moved from the sycamore’s lee,
a concrete and crazy-paved back yard
where the edge of a drowned pram breaches
the mortar, where neighbours get the washing
in the silence of forgotten pregnant slights;
and is now grown a monster, leafing
out the view from the second floor in
my second city, until winter brings again
the amber windows quick with arms and legs.
It bats awkwardly at the window, offering
out of season blush and brown flowers,
offering one day, then, and now.
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