The Almond Tree
All the way to the hospital
the lights were green as peppermints.
Trees of black iron broke into leaf
ahead of me, as if
I were the lucky prince
in an enchanted wood
summoning summer with my whistle,
banishing winter with a nod,
Swung by the road from bend to bend,
I was aware that blood was running
down through the delta of my wrist
and under arches
of bright bone. Centuries,
continents it had crossed;
from an undisclosed beginning
spiralling to an unmapped end.
Crossing (at sixty) Magdalen Bridge
Let it be a son, a son, said
the man in the driving mirror,
Let it be a son. The tower
held up its hand: the college
bells shook their blessing on his head.
I parked in an almond’s
shadow blossom, for the tree
was waving, waving me
upstairs with a child’s hands.
the spiral stair
and at the top
a bone-white corridor
the blood tide swung
me swung me to a room
whose walls shuddered
with the shuddering womb.
Under the sheet
wave after wave, wave
after wave beat
on the bone coast, bringing
ashore – whom?
minted, my bright farthing!
Coined by our love, stamped with
our images, how you
enrich us! Both
you make one. Welcome
to your white sheet,
my best poem!
the visitor’s bell
scissored the calm
of the corridors.
The doctor walked with me
to the slicing doors.
His hand upon my arm,
his voice – I have to tell
you – set another bell
beating in my head.:
your son is a mongol
the doctor said.
How easily the word went in –
clean as a bullet
leaving no mark on the skin,
stopping the heart within it.
This was my first death.
The ‘I’ ascending on a slow
last thermal breath
studied the man below
as a pilot treading air might
the buckled shell of his plane –
boot, glove, and helmet
feeling no pain
from the snapped wires’ radiant ends.
Looking down from a thousand feet
I held four walls in the lens
of an eye; wall, window, the street
a torrent of windscreens, my own
car under its almond tree,
and the almond waving me down.
I wrestled against gravity,
but the light was melting and the gulf
cracked open. Unfamiliar
the body of my late self
I carried to the car.
The hospital – its heavy freight
lashed down ship-shape ward over ward –
steamed into night with some on board
soon to be lost if the desperate
charts were known. Others would come
altered to land or find the land
altered. At their voyage’s end
some would be added to, some
diminished. In a numbered cot
my son sailed from me; never to come
ashore into my kingdom
speaking my language. Better not
look that way. The almond tree
was beautiful in labour. Blood-
dark, quickening, bud after bud
split, flower after flower shook free.
On the darkening wind a pale
face floated. Out of reach. Only when
the buds, all the buds, were broken
would the tree be in full sail.
In labour the tree was becoming
itself. I, too, rooted in earth
and ringed by darkness, from the death
of myself saw myself blossoming,
wrenched from the caul of my thirty
years’ growing, fathered by my son,
unkindly in a kind season
by love shattered and set free.
from Rounding the Horn (Carcanet 1998), © Jon Stallworthy 1998, used by permission of the author and the publisher.