The Old Tree

They've cut down the tree

that used to be out the front of the house.

I know, because I've been on google maps

looking at street view

anticipating arriving

descending down the hill on the cobblestoned footpath

past the matching mirror imaged homes that line the street.

It used to blow in the wind

that tree

on stormy nights

unsteady swaying

alive

and almost ominously human

peeking in the top floor windows

whispering little known secrets.

I can smell and taste

my childhood's stolen summers

made grey by London's blanket of winter cloud

I can feel someone else's skin

suffocatingly wrapping around me

stretching uncomfortably

itching

I've shed it since

but looking square on to this street view

perspective distorted

breath contorted

I feel her still.

No doubt I'll see her reflection

in the top floor window

lacking 10 years of frown lines

naively not seeing,

feeling

too much.

I'll probably even see that old tree,

even though they cut it down.

These things have a way of staying with us.