April

All the month long
the cherry trees have been readying boughs
with their bob and curtsey petticoats
wedding the chalk-blue, blackbird fluted air—
and when at night the wind comes,
singing its caresses through the branches,
I hear it woo the long chimney
and wake to the trees’ stripped tips,
green and bristling over the petal-strewn lawn.

I am fortunate to be surrounded by trees.

In the morning, I wake to a cherry tree that grows from the garden opposite mine. I spend ages gazing at it — skeletal against the grey skies of winter, blossomed in spring, brim full of blackbirds, pigeons, jackdaws, tits in June, gorging on the reddening fruit. Through the summer, its green flags bend to the wind that blows in off the sea, and then autumn comes—russeting.

In the kitchen, a cherry tree leans against the window. It sheds itself endlessly through the seasons, resting around the back door and I talk to it as a transient thing might:

First blossom
then stalks

cheeries
stones

now leaves—
I find you

forever walking into the house
reclaiming your ground

‘April’ is an homage of sorts to these trees. Too lyrical perhaps, too tender, to find its way into a contemporary magazine, I send it out periodically and each time it returns, a little weary, a little sorry for itself. So I thought I would give it a home here. I hope you enjoy it.