Family Trees

My knackered right knee 

went west half an hour ago, 

and somewhat indecorously

I crash onto the garden bench,

an overweight sponsored skydiver,

landing too hard for comfort.

Fitbit throbs, and

gradually records a pulse, so

my recovery confirmed

I open my eyes, and regard

the generations of trees and

muse upon my family.

Matriarch, Joan

a splendid ninety-one

the stately cracked willow.

Two prodigal sons, each busy bearing fruit,

a greengauge and a damson.

But my eye rests easily

on the lively skittish braeburn, 

a five year old whippet yet,

the garden’s granddaughter.

I watch each tree move to a rhythm

the season, the year,

all marking their place, 

growing, responsible.

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2019