May 1

Every single leaf on the tree is moving. The wind moves them.

This time the tree is at Balham station, rising above the platforms. This time every year a different tree in a different place. But really, it is the same tree, the same experience. All the leaves move at once, or perhaps a second out of time with each other, and yet in time, in a time of their own.

As I start to watch I am washed away. All my dreary every-day worries just washed away like tiny grains of sand.

I want to paint a picture of the tree. I want to paint every single leaf and write on every fluttering, open hand: every moving leaf is poetry. But I cannot paint. So instead I tell this small story and remember how lucky I was for a few minutes and hope you are as lucky.