See the nights wandering off into distance light,
Meeting like old friends in the horizon’s breaking
Of that too distant sky. See some heads knocking
Words around the airs in low lilts, homesteads
And warm familiar lairs. See the men rushing
Like thunder to each other’s lightning on streets,
In alleyways, a collision of angers – The sirens
Call, no desirables on rocks but teetering angels
In miniskirts and fake tan stained sex smocks.
See the child held close to breast, crying, testing,
Laid down again, for rest of her or his, some parents
Climb towards the bed once more. See the oak rising.
Amongst the factory lines, in offices of glass and shining
Steel, colourful names pretend at books that reveal.
See the bark, scarred and pitted with all weather
And lover’s knives, growing and growing towards
Some other sky that ends no where but forces
The tallest leaves into the beginnings of us all.
See the branches hung with lost and found, faces
Gobsmacked at the eternal round, some laugh,
Some cheat, some hide knives beneath the sheets
As lovers stab each other once more. See the oak
Overhanging the graveyards, the charnel yards,
The smoke chimneys of the crematoriums. See the leaves
Falling onto history shelves, recounting the soaring, despite
The warring that births each new flag, each new people,
Pretending the beginning is now, all lies, pretending the zero
Is the starting block of our counting in ticks and tocks.
See the oak rising through the thoroughfare of capital city,
Breached by dirty river, fading under boardwalks,
Slow and shitfaced with junkies talking in tongues, cat calls
To the younger ones pretending this is no future. See the
Waves on the shore riding up the thickest trunk while
In the air above the clouds some woman waits, wrapped
In linen shroud, her naked glory unseen and unheard
While beneath all her rings of age, the people’s frothing
In time creating a world of our own on the last branch
Where sky meets the ending of all these beloved lives.
See the oak bearing the mortal dream of the tower
Of bedlam creeping higher and then see the woman
There, under oak, waiting for men fearful to be her lovers.