The Sycamore Tree



the past/memories

As children we played under the sycamore tree

Chasing our tails as the sun beat down

Our laughter the quintessence of innocence

Souls pure, yet to be tarnished by the world's vices

Our friendship blossoming into a beautiful thing

A sacred connection between boy and girl

I recall our days, the open land, rolling moors

Purring tractors, the small of dried hay, braying cattle

The cockerel at dawn, the village fair, homemade jam

That wonderful sense of isolation, freedom and tranquility

Our own little world, air as fresh as morning dew

Cloudless cobalt blue skies, fresh winds kissing our brows

As we danced and skipped around the sycamore tree

Summer evenings, winter days, seasons of eternal joy

The sycamore tree watching over us, our dear protector


Our childhood flew by and soon we were teenagers

Friendship turned into deep love, opening new sensations

Bodies pressed close together under the sycamore tree

Hands held, fingers entwined, spirits inseparable

We frolicked and explored

Flesh upon flesh, murmurs of adoration

Our lives happy and heavenly

Nothing could shred our contentment

We carved our initials into the sycamore tree

Followed by a heart and the date

Perpetually inscribed

Binding our union, steadfast and strong


And as the years pressed on, adulthood arrived

Our lives took different paths

You moved onto pastures new

I crossed a great ocean to unfold a new chapter

The tears as we said our final goodbyes

Sitting under the sycamore tree

An air of melancholy overpowering us

Knowing that we would never meet again

That parting kiss

Bittersweet and momentous

Walking away, leaving the sycamore tree behind


Gradually, old age appeared

Eight decades to this very day

A ripe old creature I have become

In steady decline, days numbered

Almost ready to meet Death head on

Almost ... but not quite yet

I must do something before I pass

I have come home to my birthplace

The tiny village has barely changed

Bringing it all back

Tightness in my chest

A knot in my throat

The house I lived in still stands

The cobbled streets

Hanging baskets

The small village square

All as I remember

I keep walking

Leaving the village behind

I look to the moors

And see an old familiar friend

The dear sycamore tree

Standing in silence

Waiting to greet me

I touch its bark

And see the faint markings

Our initials

A heart

The date

So long ago

I sit and rest my back against the sycamore tree

And close my weary eyes

I think of the past

Our lives

I can almost hear our laughter

Our screams of joy

As we danced and skipped around the sycamore tree

I can almost feel your soft skin

Your tender touch

As we lay under the sycamore tree

I can almost feel the pain of our final day

The tears and the turmoil

As we sat under the sycamore tree


I open my eyes

Wipe away the tears

Inhale deeply

And struggle to get up

I face the sycamore tree

And gently kiss the old girl

Our final meeting

I walk away without looking back

And head down to the old village church

I have a funeral to attend

A precious friend from my golden past




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