A copy of my poem which came third in this year's writelink Spring Fever poetry contest.

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The Tree Surgeon

by
Sarah James

It was a season of growth:
the business boasted record profits
and we sipped champagne on the patio,
boasting our first grandchild.

Spring bulbs burst garden borders,
daisies leaked across the lawn.
Our almond tree blossomed into giant bridal bouquet,
later clogging drains with confetti.

My favourite tree, Dad once told me it grew memories
and its branches held up the sky.
I laughed, burrowing its bark into my back
as sun tanned my skin mahogany.

But that was childhood: the tree younger, sun softer.
Forty years later, rubbing almond oil
into forget-me-knots climbing my legs,
I found a mole on my thigh had flowered.

Shades of black had opened out petal edges,
spreading pollen growth across my body.
The almond shed its white blossom:
flakes of dead skin on the grass.

That week the tree surgeon warned
its roots threatened our foundations,
it needed felling immediately.
My sky was about to fall.