Plum Tree

A photo of the tree

Would certainly save this description

A thousand words – at least.

No need to write cherry plum

Or dark red leaves

Or discuss the depth of shadow

In the French afternoon

A film of the tree would say more, of course.

How its leaves shake and shiver and hiss and rustle

In the blustery wind

But only words will find the thousand tiny plums

Hidden in the dark red foliage

And only words can tell you about its relationships:

To the lawn, the house, the stables

To the bugs and birds who live in it

Or visit it

To people, like myself, who sit beneath its shade

Or contemplate its past, or present, or future.

Who use it, maybe, as the inspiration

For a story. Or a poem such as this.

And words can suggest it role

As a handy backdrop for tales of love, or lust, or loss

How, long ago, a young woman,

On a night lit by stars,

Wearing a white nightdress,

Ran beneath the tree’s branches

Like a ghost

And into my young arms.