A Spiral Recollection

As I round the corner

a man and his tiny daughter

are standing beneath a tree,

eyes on the ground.

"They're called helicopter seeds,"

still uncertain on her feet,

she reaches down and grabs one

and throws it into the air.

She giggles and he smiles

as the small seed twirls

to the ground, to rest

and then I'm past them.

    There was a sycamore tree

    in my neighbour's garden

    and the helicopter seeds would fall 

    onto the path of the house I grew up in.

    I'd grab handfuls 

    and float them

    into the village stream

    and watch them wash away.

As the delight fades

behind me,

I am alone again

and grab a copter of my own.

I carry it down to the river railing

of the big new city and look out

across the churning water,

until watchers move on.

I let the seed fall

and follow it for the time

its beautiful shape allows,

before it cuts through the surface

and I continue on.