Every day I take pictures of trees and post them for you.

Maybe you’ve seen my Ivy-trunked Oak with the Sun

Falling at Thirty Degrees? Sometimes I lean against it

for ages to think about you, search the knotted

branches for whichever bird is singing and wish

I could send that as well because I expect you

need birdsong more than me right now

and I’m spoilt for solace with all these trees.

Try hard to remember the woods but know

that the woods are still woods without you.

Bluebells still break, and the air is

green with spring.

(This poem was published in Porridge magazine, issue 5, 2020)