Sunday, 14 August 2011


Cast-off bark cracks brittle beneath our steps. Every piece gazes up with a lone eye. A broken jigsaw that will never fit again.

Like a sixties fabric for your Summer dress, or the tie that's the talk of the party, what's left behind is all curves you could trace with a continuous line. The trunk holds the patterns in mustard yellow, olive green, a pink hint in the brown grey and the profile of Marie Antoinette.

Imagine that you see it. Third London plane, on that little rise where you like to sit on the bench.