A yew tree grew in the garden of the house where I was born.
Some remnant of Victorian planting,
incongruous
in this moss green northern valley
of Beech and Oak.
It loomed,
Needled, bitter green,
studded acid red with berries,
tempting as fruit; forbidden.
Climbing high into its wide embrace,
a crows’ nest, a secret tower
of sun dapple, skin shadow
branch, twig and scented bark.
Beneath the tree,
slippery flagstones
slimed with fallen berries
and the leaf matter of years.
I went back there once.
The tree had gone.
A wound of naked wood, ringed with stone.
The flagstones dry and clean.