The wretched little sycamore tree outside our house br Never thrived; but the lime-trees lining the rest of the road br Burgeoned br br We never liked that little tree, br Scrawny and twisted like a malformed knee br The limes dropped drowsy scents br On to the dusty pavements in summer, br But when I left br br It was the scraggy bloomless tree, br Odourless, haunted me - br br Brought back the thought of your voice, br Of your light summery touch, and your scent… br br I have forgotten the sickly limes!br br Peter Russellbr br