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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.
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