By Emilia Cooke
I grew up in a quince tree
from which the whole was seen;
my brother - a bat - a ball;
my mother - seeds - leaves - the kitchen sink;
the neighbours’ cat as it worshiped the sky.
I grew up in a quince tree, and I alone
for mine was the only body small enough - clambering
through brambles, amongst thorns,
at the mercy of pointed twigs and spiked leaves,
until I reached my perch. A secret amongst the fruit.
I grew up in a quince tree where
a family of woodlice shared their table with me;
magpies toyed with crimson berries from
next door, whilst my home began to lose its flowers
as the air gained a frost.
I grew up in a quince tree, until
my legs began to stretch -
fingers finding other things to thrill.
The last carving into the greying wood
was made. Out of which,
the quince tree began growing inside of me.
Comments