(This poem is the last of this month’s posting of poems I wrote fifty plus years ago – I think I was in a bad mood about my schooling when I wrote this!)
Skin turns gold in summer.
We’re out of season in this hemisphere.
By autumn we’re the colour of plum blossom
Ready for dropping.
Trees here are born out of time.
Bastards never stood a chance.
Someone cuts them down
In case they fruit in winter.
Nursery care is too long, too slow.
We grow too high to be lights to the world.
I’d rather be scrub
And cover the whole earth.
That’s the trouble with southern trees
When they’re fed on shit from the north.