Catching my traffic-snarl’d eye
As I queue for a place on the road
Between a rock and a hard place
I spy, beyond a Victoriana municipality fence,
A tall, slow-motion sky rocket eruption
Of a graceful firework tree.
It tumbles, turning in gentle stir-by breezes,
Teasing towards its arboretum lake-surfaced twin:
Pale bright green, every sparkle that unwinds
From the centre, arcing out,
Each to its own Nirvana-webb’d route.
Swinging to and fro on
God’s invisible parachute cords.
In a moment the traffic will move me beyond:
This tree will never be seen this way again.
beeseeker 