That rite of passage of the middle class –

chauffeuring offspring to the varsity –

took us the breadth of England, from Hoole to Hull.

Extending her childhood, our parenthood

or both, we travelled the edge of hope

and longing, by acres of burning stubble

and slagheaps greening. In the rearview mirror,

she leant forward to gossip about

the future…When she was eight, we’d planted

her cherry tree, knowing she would one day

climb up it and out of sight. We watched it

blossom in her absence.

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  1. #1 by John Chapman - March 22nd, 2012 at 06:49

    How strange that our daughter, too, has her own cherry tree in our garden. For me it is a memory tree often giving pause for reflection. What a prodigious capability our brain has for the storage and retrieval of information. Now retired, I find myself using this function more and more to great comfort.

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