While waiting at the publishing house, the author has a curious experience

I arrived just as everyone

was going home for the night,

another good day’s work completed.

I sat down to wait in the foyer –

well, atrium actually. I looked up and up

at floor upon foliage-fringed floor

until my eyes arrived at the apex

of the glass roof, where they rested a moment,

while I wondered who washed it or, indeed,

if anyone did. Then my gaze slid

down to light on a small tree opposite.

I slumped deeper into the large mud-brown sofa

and waited, listening to the sounds of parting:

doors opened and slammed shut with abandon,

free-at-last footsteps clanged down the metal stairwell,

shards of happy chatter dropped, shattered,

a man with a heavy limp click-clacked across the wooden floor,

good nights were offered, returned.

And I sat waiting, my eyes fixed on the small green tree.

All around me the world was moving, leaving,

and I, rooted there, leafing.

By the time someone came to fetch me,

I had turned into a tree.

Listen to Your Manager
Your Smile
On the Beach at New Quay
While Waiting
Boy at the Somme

The Dream Team
The Dog Who Cried Custard
Bags of Inspiration
Time Flies
Little Devil