A dying tree stands beneath my window,
rent and torn by wind and weather, its skin
a coloured orange from the fungal Rusts.
The sky has a sheened-grey, dull aspect
and desolate drizzle hides the distance.
Stark trees standing forlorn and water-logged,
their remnants of spring and summer hanging,
limply, dead and soused with heavy rain.
A wood pigeon gains a clumsy clawhold,
scrabbling for balance on a mouldy limb
which bears the marks of careless killer fire.
Jew’s Ear fungi camp upon the dead bark;
raindrops drip, hang-a-while, then drip again:
peerless and peaceful, dripping time away.