THE CHERRY TREE

My earliest memory lingers:
my parents' cherry tree.
Reclining in my push-chair
and gazing up at the crazy patterns of sky:
bright blue patches
between lush green leaves.
Cool shade on hot summer days.
Rich red fruits, like crimson marbles
that I desperately wanted to grasp
but hadn't yet the co-ordination.

Later, playing with friends:
Cowgirls and Indian Squaws,
beneath the huge canopy of that tree
whose shadow now embraced
over half of our lawn.
By then we could reach those rich red delights -
at least those on the lower branches,
so gorged ourselves to our hearts' content...
or until we made ourselves sick -
which we did. Frequently.

I recall my father high up on his ladder,
cherry picker even higher.
Then mother baking cherry pies,
cherry crumble, jam and tarts;
and still having ample fruits to pack
into cardboard punnets to sell
at the end of our drive on Saturday mornings
for a few pence each -
my summer pocket money.

Waking on school holiday mornings
was utterly enchanting,
thanks to that beautiful tree
whose highest branches on stormy days
tapped against my bedroom window panes:
a secret code language between best friends
of different species.
It provided the ideal playground for birds too -
from the minute wren to huge black crow,
they all seemed to adore it as much as I did.
And I loved nothing more
than to fall asleep on windy nights
to the rustling of it's leaves,
knowing I was totally safe
with this giant Guardian just outside.

Then, tragically, it became too huge.
The entire lawn and half of a rose garden
had grown gloomy beneath it's shade.
My mother was cross - she had lost
her favourite sunbathing spot.
So, that spring, my father cut it down.
In it's place, lay a pile of severed limbs -
it hurt as if they were mine -
and it's snow white blossoms filled the air,
rising on the breeze and swirling around me
as if it's noble Spirit had come to say goodbye
before rising to the Other world beyond.
And no one but me seemed to care.
I was completely broken.

Nothing was ever the same after that fateful day.
Bare blue skies of the summers that followed
seemed somehow much duller, joyless and barren,
whilst birdsong took on a decidedly mournful air.
And nights devoid of comforting leaf-murmur
became reminiscent of a lead-sealed tomb.
Even our lawn in sympathy shrivelled
to barren lifeless stalks,
as did my painfully sun burned skin...
without our beloved tree.