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)