An Old Friend
By Diana Gittens
When we first met I was only fourteen.
You'd been here far longer than me.
I'd lost my roots, but yours were overflowing.
You welcomed me with silent tolerance
put me at ease in vivid greens and shades
of chestnut, alder, oak and beech.
I rested by your beds
of lavender, sage and thyme,
climbed stone steps between magnolia branches
to the granite woman of the moor, looking out
towards rounded hills, thrown
by some ancient potter's hands.
Twelve apostle yews guarded me
near the necking swans in trickling water
where scarlet acers recalled my childhood Fall.
Your echoing wheel of stone spoke
with my voice I could hear but could not find.
I sat there munching biscuits with my friend
breathing blossom scents, watching butterflies
dance the colours, as if Mozart
had been playing (he often was).
I still come to see you when I'm lost
and though we've spread in many ways,
together under sky we reconnect.
Copyright belongs to Diana Gittins