Dead leaves

The air is alive with the vibrancy of so many voices

They echo over, around and under me

In the centre is a tree

A bare thing all bark no leaves but twigs that reach for the sky

Winding up its trunk a garland of blinding lights dots the outline of its shape

Halfway up and stops

Abruptly the unfinished branches sway dark lines against that other white – the sky

Pale and overcast with drifting shapes and the shadows of great winds

Up there

Down here

The voices swirl in the stone courtyard

And here I stand, rooted