Sycamore

He holds his secrets tight, enclosed,

like the old purple sycamore 

crouched at the end of the garden.

I want to slice him open,

read the rings of his trunk

find out about years

he has held these secrets. 

When was it dry

making him grow so tight?

When were the floods

that caused him to swell?

When the bitter north wind

which made him lean that way?

A chainsaw, a roar, 

a smell of flesh.