Looking at the Children’s Home By William Marsland.

[billy]

I sit and rest my back
against the gnarled trunk.
My broad sycamore, solitary standing
pays no never mind,
has no memory of scuffed knees,
of ripped trousers, and torn tears
Long boughs form a conspicuous canopy
reaching for the barren hedgerow
of an otherwise naked common.

A dancing wren, wings splayed
Distracts my view.
High faded palisades dissolve
as it wrests a half-cut worm
from a hard hoarfrost ground,
ascends to a low branch and
vacuously takes a shit