Misplaced upstart sycamore,
shooting from damaged concrete.
What drives such green confidence,
sprung as you are from wayward keys,
late buffeted by autumn elements
and the caprice of a council leaf blower?
Flying against reason,
stubbornly mocking the odds and gods
with rude and purposed growth,
some imperative demanding vigour
as if earmarked for higher service,
out of reach and unknown
to this observer.
When you become fixed,
will you stop and take breath?
Will you then regret your roots?
Should we consider relocation now,
free from a cemented aggregate
destined to limit lofty plans?
I offer my services, lost tree.
I have a spade.
I know a place.
Just say the word.
Picture credit: Pauline Eccles (trimmed and adapted from Sunlight on a sycamore leaf on wikicommons)