He Got There

Had we been hiding in the cobbled stone, star, Moon, and Milky Way mottled darkness of Dryad Street at midnight, we would have seen Crispin controlling his creaking Penny Farthing bicycle for further than usual before coming off it and cursing his grazing and the need to negotiate stones and slipperiness in order to keep an appointment , then, by way of apology to the strikingly ornate steel street sign with it's jet black pretend twig letters, and to the name they bare, promise to plant, in the morning, a new tree in the hills of sleeping dreaming green above.