Old Bunhill Fields Burial Ground

How old is this tree
under whose branches
I write?

What’s left of George Fox
is somewhere nearby.
Maybe his flesh fed the tree
whose leaves form a dome
of green protecting
me from this strange
sunny day in London.

I see faces in the gnarled bark,
my predecessors coming up for air,
nonconformists, dissenters, Friends.

I would climb this tree
but the lowest branches
are out of reach
and neither my claws nor wings
are strong enough to lift my bulk
unlike the squirrels and birds
who know the truth,
beg for alms
yet remain silent.

I am one of the thousand leaves
sprouting from high branches
furthest from the earth
yet utterly dependent
upon it for life.