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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