From The North
I had been reading in church;
not the Bible but a poem
about Devon's favourite wizard
and what he did for the washerwomen
of old Plymouth town.

I looked down, surprised to find
I was tapping my foot at the top of the aisle
on a burial stone. A man's
name was driven into the slate
like natural curls in arcs of greenery.

When I had finished, a lady,
who looked like a Church Warden, told me
that she was a Tree Warden.
She thanked me, then apologised for the intrusion,
but said that while she watched me reading,

she clearly saw me as willow in sunlight.
'Disregard the implication of grief,'
she said.
'Consider this - a wand of willow
will grow when you plant it in water.'