Wings

Sodden mist on my tree, yellow.
The yellow of teeth.
The mist,
The mist around the talk of old people.

It was born dead, the tree.
And grew grandly dead.
With dead leaves,
Dead yellow fruit on branches,
That stained yellow, our washing.
(The yellow of teeth.)

In this part of the world
(Where the rain never stops.)
There is no autumn.
So the leaves should never fall.

When the uncles came visiting,
We needed more branches
To hang our washing
And we wished for more dead trees.