Sycamore Sunday

She's a time machine
in the shape of a sycamore,
her leaves glowing emerald in the sun.

Twisted branches like swimming pythons:
near the ground, a deep crook
where I straddled and stayed for an hour.

Midges spiralled through shining air,
sounds of the city dulled into distance -
footsteps, voices, wind in the leaves, all silent –

my breath and heartbeat slowed
as she told me I had no need of anything,
nor any reason for fear.

While the sun flickered through her hair,
I laid my journey aside
for this moment. Our bargain,

that she gives me shelter and peace,
and I give her what I can: a life
immortal in the realm of the mind.