The Neighbour Cut Down The Damson Tree

 

I keep postponing

writing this poem

more an obituary

than a poem.

Truth is my heart sinks

each time I come across

one of its fruits

lying still in some corner of the garden.

Haven’t been able yet…

to write of how

I will miss the snow of its blossom

in the height of spring

write about the guilt

although it was not up to me,

Tree wasn’t mine

only the shade that came from it.

Birds have not been back since

the devastating vast event;

a solitary dove hops about

like my soul wandering

where her home has gone.

It’s no coincidence

that since that day

of motors, of noise from hell

the sawing, cutting, killing

of the giant who protected my garden,

Pandora’s box burst open.

Today it’s me

mourning the loss

of home

that was you, but

Hope must still be in there

somewhere...

 

 

 

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