I moved to Bristol 2 months ago.

I have been working for Deliveroo, riding orders around the city on my bike. When I am delivering, I live in the future, cutting corners and running lights to shave down time and pull in a bit more money. I am always getting somewhere else, and the present moment is just an obstacle in the way of that place. If I am still, I am not tranquil; I am waiting with jittery impatience to collect an order and continue chasing a wage.

Tonight I had a quiet shift, with long gaps between orders. I decided to call it off after an hour and a half of frustration, heading back up Gloucester Road to my house. Instead of turning up the street to mine, I used the unlit path through St Andrews park. I rode to the middle of the park and turned off my bike lights, reluctant to break the enveloping darkness. I leant my bike against a bench and sat down.

Two huge plane trees rise ahead and behind where I’m sitting, arching together over my head. I can see their limbs in silhouette against the dim glow of city clouds. Plane branches jag this way and that on their way out to the light, seemingly at random, so that the leafless tree looks jumbled and disordered. The huge trunk rises into a mass of sticks that you can’t untangle in your mind, like the frazzled aftermath of an explosion.

A few dead leaves linger on branches, long forgotten by the trees, which have withdrawn into themselves and away from the hostile air. Though these giants are sleeping, their silent bodies hum with strength and height. They are revealed in the half-lit gloom of the city night. As Bristol ebbs around them, their presence becomes more pronounced, branches black against the sky.