The Pomegranate Tree
It would act something like a headstone then.
No need for an inscription when each year
fat buds would break into leaves
shining like your eyes did or like the light
on Whitby harbour when your ashes
caught the sea, the day's end in their arc.
Then there'd be flowers like paper, white
but for veins that made each petal
remember it was pink. How close
is this to the colour of your freckles,
that came out only in the sun, how close
to the circles under your eyes?
Later, there'd be fruit, no bigger
than a duck's egg, rusted, dented
but not damaged, as if it knew
there'd be other shapes we'd call perfect.
And who's to say what is 'damaged'?
The seeds, like rubies, are they perfect?
When they're ripe, I'll cut the fruit in two,
watch juice seep onto the breadboard,
and cut again. Then I'll take a pin,
lift a seed and hold it in my teeth
the way, as kids, we ate pomegranates
until someone showed us how to peel them.
Published in The Oxford Magazine No. 225, 2003