THE TREE THAT WAS

It was a representative, 

a symbol for

 a namesake of…

 a person, woman, my mother

 - not a memorial, but something living, live.

The feckless part was moi -

thinking: trees just grew alone - let them be/do their thing;

whatever the space for roots

or light;

they’re not only an object, with a job to do and be.

 Trees per se mind about association,

 orientation, existential intention.

And mayhap embody unimaginable purposes.

Tender apprehensions beyond our ken.

She was never a tree hugger,

or sentimental projector;

she was a native sensitive,

 deep and quiet inside.

All that self-effacement, duty,

post-war busy-ness to survive and serve hid the druid in her:

feed the feral cats and babies,

hang mountains of washing, mend socks,

cook, shop, take care of

the garden, grow vegetables, make jam, churn butter,

 bake scones, collect mushrooms nuts and blackberries ad inf.

The Spanish sativa chestnut shot up

in premature vigour.

The placement was unsuited.

It’s stream-side roots were on bedrock - had nowhere to go.

She’d also had enough of restriction, repression, expectation.

They both had no way to go…

…but make bonfires for barbeques:

have parties and gather,

loll in hammocks, fly kites;

and howabout making a stream-crossing

out of the fallen trunk?

 Play in the river

sing, dance, celebrate,

spirits rising free 

whilst cherishing the sacred in space

the silence and solitude.