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