Planting trees is an act of faith

 

that you, Dad,

indulged, atheist in love

with the lives of saints.

You revelled in cleverness,

thefts, a forest of stolen cuttings

rooted in white powder,

brought on in flimsy cups and old Stork tubs

lined on a brick-raised door,

planted out front when they were young

and pliable.              

 

But when did you come to believe

in the reality of trees?

 

Was it when

their trunks were thicker than your grip?

When you had to stunt them for your safety?

When you got a man in? 

When the front room swam

in half-tree light, and windows

rotted in the press of branches,

brown and leafless,

though you knew their names?

Was it when your house became

the strange house on the street?

When there were rumours?

 

 

 

Nancy

 

She died when it was almost usual, almost not. 

 

Remembered with more

than a crossed name in a Bible,

with less than streets lined in shock,

crammed crematoria,

yearly flowers, toys.

 

There was a black-edged envelope,

with her notice,

her portrait,

colourised in a fairy wreath,

and a plait of hair,

tied with thin black velvet,

faded brittle pale

as if she had grown old anyway.

 

And, of course, there was her little sister

who had to pass her,

had to have a life.

Who, when she saw her granddaughter,

saw her.

Who kept the envelope

in her bedside drawer

away from family cabinets.

Who took it out,

occasionally,

for the few,

held the plait flat on her palm,

little fingers, washed and reverent,

allowed to touch it, stroke it.

 

As if it was a creature,

and still real.

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​Ann Heath lives and works in York.  She has been published in Dreamcatcher, Atrium and Ink, Sweat and Tears among others, and in various anthologies.

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