Old sycamore
The big dry sycamore leaves Rattle gently in the breeze Takes me away to a mountain spring Washing over the stones before the winter’s freezing. Cold still, moving still. Her Mace seed-pod ready To pelt someone’s back or really Break up down your sister’s shirt The itch bomb makes you take a Shower. Mighty and tall the Sycamore With broad leaves and a broad stance An Autumn beauty who loves the dance.