My favourite holly in the castle
grew outside the Douglas Garden,
softening the large, bare courtyard
and attracting songbirds in winter.
Though holly leaves are prickly and dark
they please both Christian and Pagan,
useful as cooks' decorations,
while the tree is reckoned good fortune.
It was early in spring that I saw
those two men hack down the holly.
Distraught, I ran to the kitchen
but found no-one in authority.
The next day I was told
they were setting the stones into concrete,
which was needed to deal with the ants
and untidy grass in the courtyard.
It will be easier on your shoes
and less muddy in rainstorms,
we were told, but the kitchen folk grumbled.
To destroy a good tree is bad business.
Sent with the cans to the well
I look up – no tree in the courtyard.
There are still hollies higher up
but not on my route with the water.
I preferred the stones without concrete.
I liked the pineapple weed
and small mints that grew in the crevices,
thrift and thyme, pearlwort and daisy.
Still sometimes I am sent
to the Douglas garden, for chives
or for walnuts to darken the meat,
and beneath the old hollies, I smile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem