Climbing Memory: A Childhood Tree and the Fires Within

Once my climbing space —
the childhood tree where I ran, hid, laughed
while footsteps of caution drew near.
A kingdom of scratches, scraped knees,
and whispered secrets only you could hold.

My afternoon rest —
while others slipped into siesta dreams.
Your shade was calm.
Your branches, my secret swings.
I rocked there, swinging, laughing,
half child, half storm,
all alive.

Branchy, bushy, fruit you bore,
ripened stories I still taste in memory.
Your leaves whispered the wind’s secrets,
your bark held the heat of the sun.
Rooted just beyond my father’s room
in that old Brit home that smelt of time —
sunlight spilling across the veranda,
dust dancing in its golden halo.

Aisled by crotons, pots, humming gardens,
you stood — my watcher, my quiet guard.
Sheltering my mind
while I raged and played,
tripped over roots, laughed into the sky,
half dreaming, half storming.

Now you lie pale, bare —
human hands tore you to pieces.
The yard, once alive,
breathes only dust and ache.
Yet the childhood tree lives in memory,
in every branch I climb in my mind,
in every shadow that cools my restless heart.

I come here now,
stand where your roots once hummed,
watching while I smoke like a chimney —
mourning what once grew wild,
and the fire that still smolders within me.