This leaf is from
the gum tower
parched with the 
antipodean habit of thirst, 
sending suctorial root- 
snakes lickety-split,
deep down under, 
slipping and winding, 
sucking dry the garden.

Oh they slither
and slip, splitting the bricks, 
scour the mortar,
shifting and heaving
the heft of the house.

A storm cracks
shaking the crow boats
from the sea of leaves; 
shattering the spindle fingers 
of the branches,
rattling and scattering
a yellow slew of spears.

The rogue Ghost is faultless
but unkindly placed:
a migrant spire retrieving the sun 
from a grey English sky.