The lopped branch has put the tree in a sulk.
That’s the technical term we learnt
from the arborealist who came to treat
the exuberant cherry he would cut.
They’d built our houses on orchard land,
terraces ranked – for all their ideals –
according to social status. Ours was in
the mid-range – though these days
it’s not so hard to be priced out of the market.
Every year we still get fruit from it,
but the cherry tree’s not so happy with us now.
It sulks – that is the word – by the fence
and lets the finches in there first.
On summer mornings, perhaps,
