At this time of year I wish I could quote poetry like my mother.
I think she has a photographic memory, and can still quote
from almost all of the poetry she ever learned, or that made
an impression on her. What sends me hunting for a suitable
poet is wonder that I can't express myself in paint. For instance I have no idea how to paint my beautiful cherry tree. I think the tree may be about 10 years old, and it has given us so much pleasure. It was our first tree and technically we planted it in the wrong place . It's squeezed between our
garage and the neighbour's fence, in a space about six feet wide,
but it's undaunted by all that. Every year since we bought it, it's
produced more cherries than we can handle, and some of the
most delicious memories of early summer. I love picking
the lush fruit with the juice running down my arms, the wonderful
look of the silver colander full of cherries, and the pies.
Steven's bakes amazing sour cherry pies with perfect
In late June, early July we pick, and now our neighbours pick
the fruit, until we can't possibly stand to pick anymore, and
then we freeze quantities, try and figure out how to make sauce,
give some away, get out our pitters and pit. The sound of the pits
hitting the bowl is always cause for laughter.
Even in winter, covered with snow, the tree is beautiful.
Here is one of the poems by A.E. Housman that my mother
loved when I was a child:
|A. E. Housman (1859–1936). A Shropshire Lad. 1896.|
|Loveliest of trees, the cherry now|
Have a poetic day!