This is one of my uneasy, 'not sure how long I'll be brave enough to keep it online for' poems, so it might suddenly disappear into the night. Sorry for the darkness of it, whoever reads it (though it ends hopefully), I suppose I could cut some of it so that it was less dark.
The Yew's early pollen
is sometimes plucked by a bee
in a fleeting Spring romance
of bitter honey.
Creamy puffs of glitterlight, and
hungry -- we can all be lured,
though it is the night
that the Yew sings to, bees abed,
to court its stars, to wear the moon
as a celestial hat.
I remember sitting in a room,
listening to people talk about me,
or not listening at all, perhaps,
the coffee table and plastic cups,
his clean, white coat, his badge,
The Yew is a dark tree;
in graveyards, people are planted
like fields of dead, bones tangled
in a Yew's roots, the tree, vigilant
for new interments.
I remember asking to shave my legs
in hospital, the bath sat, as if staged,
in the centre of the room, a nurse perched
in the doorway, on watch.
And whilst I could lie upon this earth
and let the soil and trees devour me,
I see, too, how nothing has ever sought life
as much as a Yew yearns for eternity.
So I will grow old quietly,
though I am still drawn to Winters, and
their spears of cold, I know now,
that all this time, I had been mistaking
death for the peace of relinquishment.
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Overton_Yew_Tree.jpg