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.