In the car’s back seat
I crane my eyes up at
the Eucalyptus
of Louisville street
and imagine my parents
sowing a copper-coloured seed,
hopeful and expectant,
as if throwing a coin
into a wishing well
I called it our “family tree”
and outgrew each ashen branch,
until one day they severed the bark
and I smeared my grief
in the blood of its silver leaves
Even now, as the years have passed,
the Eucalyptus remains
rooted in my mind:
our family’s sacred offering
to the passage of time.
Ripped from sleep,
eyes half-open, stiff limbs
grind then ease into motion
the mingling of salt and sweat
dries on my skin; each ankle
plastered to prevent blistering
on a well-worn path,
daffodils bloom and bathe
in the late February sun
and confetti-blossom
trees line a route
out of chaos
and into
calm
I prefer anonymity:
To stare through a glass darkly
Knowing that the face
On the other side
won’t call back at me
As I slip into
the buzzing crowds of
A London tube station;
just another black figure
in a Lowry painting
Because beyond
the limitations of a name,
‘heirloom’ is no longer
the heir that looms
And my mind ceases
to become framed
By what haunts me
Catherine Lucy Rowland 