It’s withered, like a dead skull, on York stone pavement. Crumbling, dried, sad. Losing colour, frayed round the edges. On a thin stem, fallen from a great height, spiralled down from the highest treetop. Remember when you were a bud? Barely broken out of your twig…? Then you swelled as rain fell onto the ground. Expanding green, growth, sucking in sunlight. Changing it to sugars. Then the cold wind bit, frost grew on your surface, ice crept into your veins. Ended, you fell. You will be dust soon, forgotten.