Mulberry Poem by Don Pearson

(For Sylvette, who can see through the leaves)

This year, I longed for August and its crops.
As Spring approached, I watched the other trees,
Their leaves were greening all about the hill.
Through April’s lengthening days, my joy stood bare
Until the first long breath of Summer’s warmth.

The flowers passed unnoticed but the fruit,
Reddened by ancient lovers’ fateful tryst,
Grew large and ripe, wine dark, replete with juice,
An esoteric bounty from the gods,
Like their divine ambrosia found on earth.

This time last year I walked around the lawn,
Examined each rich berry, took the best,
(Stained blood-red my clothes, my mouth and hands)
Confected them into a rich ice-cream,
And like St. Paul, converted all my friends.

Now I ignore the glut beneath the tree,
Wasting on the ground, food for birds and wasps.
I have no taste for fruit, however sweet,
The plums and apples, glowing on the branch,
I scorn like Christmas lights, still hung in March.

The memory of lusciously ripe fruit
Is somehow worse than any bitter gall.
The berry that most stimulates my mouth,
Can not be found in Teignmouth’s arbour now.
The one that I love most, I taste no more.

Like Pyramus, I fear my Thisbe’s fate,
I heard the lion and found the cast-off veil.
My life and hers had become intertwined,
Like ivy round the mulberry’s knotty trunk.
She may not sit under its shade again.

The sea, the cliffs, still fill my window panes.
Still the tide comes in, retreats, returns.
I feel no thrill in this, once bright, prospect.
No pleasure comes to fill each hour’s dull march.
My outlook seems a desert wasteland now.

Sep 2001/Jan 2008