On the steppes of my front garden rests a monkey puzzle tree,
a veritable Rhodean Colossus torn down, premature,
by the reach of its own roots.
Amber sacs congregate in its dimming alcoves
and swallow spiders whole,
spiders whose webs dangle absent across the barbs of its leaves
like office shirts on a washing line.
The monkey puzzle rips up concrete like fish-and-chip newspaper,
and slices reams of prom-dress netted fabric
with all the grace of a reluctant seamstress,
that dreams of higher boughs.
My monkey puzzle tree grows and grins
as it scrapes against the silverwork of the seasonal German automobiles
and brushes away their passing with the broken promise of snows.
My monkey puzzle rues the day
it is to be pulled from its dwindling throne
and entombed in the annals of the compost bin.