I once had a dark, black cherry tree.
It was mine, at the bottom of my garden,
It oozed orange blood, blood known as amber,
I often climbed to the branch just under the top twig, and shook its fruit into a bowl,
Full to the brim with black eyes, I ate none at all,
I fell from its lowest bough, hit my head upon a shard of stone, flint.
That could have been a stone-age man’s spearhead.
It hurt, I imagined later, just like a bite from the fang of a mamba,
I cried out loud, and I ran to the door,
But there was no one there to tend to me,
My parents and my brothers had gone out for something eat,
I was very, very sore.
They’d forgotten I was up the tree,
© 2019 Dean Stalham
Dean Stalham has been writing plays, poetry and prose for many years. Recently he has been reciting his poetry live.