Vashti Bunyan

Whatever pulled the wind that night
It had it bring a tree down
Untidy lime tree holding tight
To the end of my last garden
One of five against the sky
An elegant surrender
It broke the wall and bent the gate
And warmed us through the winter
Whatever pulls the wind tonight
Will have the roof slates fly
But rows of chimney pots don’t wave
Like trees against the sky
The hill behind the old house