The wretched little sycamore tree outside our house
Never thrived; but the lime-trees lining the rest of the road
Burgeoned

We never liked that little tree,
Scrawny and twisted like a malformed knee
The limes dropped drowsy scents
On to the dusty pavements in summer,
But when I left

It was the scraggy bloomless tree,
Odourless, haunted me -

Brought back the thought of your voice,
Of your light summery touch, and your scent…

I have forgotten the sickly limes!