A few gilded leaves remain on the old ash.
They glow in the rays of the streetlight shining over my roof.
Lying here in bed I watch the tree framed in my window.
A lovely confusion of black branches
here and there ghosted by the streetlight.
Sometimes disturbed by the speeding black shadow
of a night bird, or the light from a car on the hill.
The kindly stars twinkle amongst the branches as
they dance in the night breeze.
Asleep and waking in the deepest night, I open my eyes.
Look! The stars are tangled in the branches.
Caught, imprisoned among the sharp black twigs.
Let them go! The stars want to be free old ash . . .
they want to be free to move like us.
I drift down deep. I must go . . . I must fly outside
and disentangle the stars.