The Magnolia Tree

In a break from normal programming, a poem for National Poetry Day.

The Magnolia Tree

I never dream real spaces; or,

rather, I do, but only one,

a house with a magnolia tree.

Often, the house is empty;

or, I still own a key, and (by

mistake) go in, before it

dawns.

                  One Spring day, on

the road home, I took a path

less travelled by (me), and I

braved the A13; fumes,

road dust, noise. As I walked, I

saw a cat, dead, lying across a

drain. A moment’s grief, I then

walked on a step; stopped;

again, I looked; and stumbled

home for something to fetch

him in. I could not bear to

touch him, this not-cat, doll,

imposter. I scooped him up,

and put him in the ground by

the magnolia tree.

                                The garden

stepped down, in terraced lawns.

Our old dog, his hot blood up, would

chase the neighbour’s cats, and

hurdle flower-beds in his rage; after,

in his dotage, he would, with some

regret, creak slowly back. The

magnolia tree stood at the end, in

a brick-lined round, where nothing

grew. In late Spring, it put forth

pure delight; more wondrous still,

flowers shed, it seemed to strew

dead earth with marble cups.