Underneath the Horse Chestnut Tree

We scattered mum over where her sister lay
My Father seemed smaller somehow as my Brother,
Ready to catch him at any moment,
Walked him out of the churchyard
Beneath the archway where he had once kissed her

The world seemed silent just for them
The sky had grabbed the clouds and held them still,
And the wind and the birds and the trees all held court
As they paused beneath the horse chestnut tree
Opposite the school where mum had served us dinners in the hall
And applied band-aids and cuddles on the playground
Then they collapsed into the car and drove away

I stayed behind. We needed to talk.
“I’m so angry at you” I said
But, of course, I wasn’t
Not at her. Not anymore

And so I knelt in the cool and comforting grass
And I plunged my fingers into the earth
And held her in my fingers for one last time
And I wept tears of pleading
And I howled for the dogs to hear

I too stopped beneath the horse chestnut tree
It had thrown its wares to the floor
Like a clown throws sweets at a children’s party
And I remembered then all the hours we spent:
Throwing branches in the air to reach the highest fruit
Hunting for the perfect weapon
So fat it looked like a medieval mace
Strong enough to kill a kid and cleave his head in two
(But pick too early and the stone would be soft
Too late and it would start to decay)
Then home to the mums to bake and pickle
And skewer
Vinegar drips and newly learned knots
The jousts in the netball court
Stampsy’s and “No Stampy’s”
(There was always a stampsy, no matter what)

I could picture a dozen kids
Watching in awe as David Hunt’s seventy-niner
(a brazen boast: no evidence provided)
Was obliterated in one almighty swing
Casualties were feared as pieces of shrapnel
Exploded into wide-eyed and gleeful faces
And the cry, the understated yelp,
“Well, that’s a Oner!”
Applying salt to the wounds

And part of me wished I’d scattered you here
Here beneath the chestnut tree
And I would have come back next year
And picked the fruit
And I’d have made sure I wasn’t too early
That the stone would be soft
And I’d have promised not to ever be so late again
It would have begun to decay