collecting gates
found a dead tree
ivy bound
its leaves still green, its berries blackcurrant
was it the tree or the ivy
the ivy has snapped too
its as dense as wood
the trunk has crumbled inside
the split is from the root
poor tree killed by ivy and rough wind
a nest of ingrown chicken wire
inhabited like a cobweb dancing in the shadows
and has that slab of concrete always been there
the perfect tripping device
