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
They’ve been here all year:
a constant omen
in the wake of contagion
Plagued by the heat of a summer morning
I awoke and watched their offspring
gurgle and scream
from the chestnut tree;
abandoned between its branches
Now through winter’s lockdown
I pass them by
as their coal-black, cawing bodies
heave with each cry
and mock my solitary footsteps all the while
Today the guardians of Burgess park
gather ceremoniously
next to a trampled mask
for another socially-distanced murder
Silver leaves line
the road I travel through
Cherry blossom trees
Too fragile and fearful to bloom
Storm clouds gather ahead
and a crack of blue sky appears
The birds of the air feel its heaviness
And scatter as it nears
In this bleak city
We entertain thoughts of mortality
Misplaced and displaced
Spectators of our own calamity
Catherine Lucy Rowland 