Cherry Tree
Eight years have passed
Since I placed my cherry seed in the grass.
“Must have a tree of my own,” I said—
And watered it once and went to bed
And forgot; but cherries have a way of growing
Though no one’s caring very much or knowing,
And suddenly that summer, near the end of May,
I found a tree had come to stay.
It was very small, a five months’ child,
Lost in the tall grass running wild.
Goats ate the leaves, a grasscutter’s scythe
Split it apart, and a monsoon blight
Shrivelled the slender stem… Even so,
Next spring I watched three new shoots grow,
The young tree struggle, upwards thrust
Its arms in a fresh fierce lust
For light and air and sun.
I could only wait, as one
Who watches, wondering, while
Time and the rain
Made a miracle from green, growing pain…
I went away next year—
Spent a season in Kashmir—
Came back thinner, rather poor,
But richer by a cherry tree at my door.
Six feet high, my own dark cherry,
And – I could scarcely believe it – a berry,
Ripened and jewelled in the sun,
Hung from a branch – just one!
And next year there were blossoms, small
Pink, fragile, quick to fall
At the merest breath, the sleepiest breeze…
I lay on the grass, at ease,
Looked up through leaves, at the blue...