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The birch over the road is dark

Against the paling corridor of blue

Between earth and cloud that seems

Stuck to a brick backwall in some

Old show peeling and thin the birch

Is dark before the passing scraps

Of white almost a silhouette almost

Black the coinshaped leaves fluttering

And the tendrils teasing out wind

Half-obscuring the pale and scarred

And thin trunk that is stark skeletal

Before the lopsided brick garage wall

Layed clumsily in a concrete bed and

Eaten-at by insects and grey vines

Out of the belly of the cloudbank

A lesion of bright white slips and floods

The street skirting the branchends of

The birch and it is like the bottom

Fell out the lightbucket and broke

Itself a place into the world and silver

Are the birchlimbs that were dark