Diametrical Growth

Published in the printed Issue 56 of ‘Voice & Verse Magazine’

Diametrical Growth

My garden marked the passing of time 

until I left.

The swaying force of my pine tree led to the season of rebirth.

When it was time to change skin, it shed off its dry needles

into the gutter.

Under the rains, to Mum’s disappointment,

they fell in a prickling shower,

and threaded a soft brown carpet that covered the navy tiles and the grass

in patches of brown.

Ignoring their suffocating power, Mum planted new flowers.

The soil woke up and welcomed the seeds,

eager to find out which colours would blanket its neat beds.

She used to mail me pictures of her artwork, with our black cat

sitting still in the middle, posing like the Egyptian divinity Bastet.

Like her, the last one of a series of many

protectors of home, women’s secrets, fertility and birth.

As an open door to warm breeze or chilly gusts, 

autumn passed quite unnoticed.

It was either the weaker trail of a hot summer,

without the same daring and seducing strength,

or the prelude of winter, with cold spells that surprised Nature

and drove it right into the heart of the coldest season

forcing the landscape to hibernate and shed its lush clothes.

But summer is every year for me the season of discoveries.

The pine tree in my garden has grown suddenly very tall,

like a teenager you leave as a boy and find the year after a man,

shambling off the house in a hoodie, cap on his head.

The rosemary shines in all its splendour and woodsy pungent aroma.

A lavender bush replaces the deceased apricot tree.

The grey foggy sky of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine

is now a permanent blue sheet.

The dark afternoons get back their long and bright nights.

And the vapours of hot minestrone, braised meats and polenta

turn to lunches and dinners outdoors.

I harvest red tomatoes, bite their sweet inviting meat

dripping joyous blood that tickles my naked arms.

The ones not eaten on the spot are paired

with milky buffalo mozzarella and fresh basil leaves

that leave a fragrance of home on my fingertips.

I pack this aroma with crisp mountain air, white pebbles from the beach,

drops of emerald seawater and other Italian comforts

that will travel with me back to the East.

Under the big umbrella that sways like a swing before any summer

storm – all noise, wind, musky smell and little rain – 

we revel in ham and melon, bruschetta, spaghetti alle vongole, salads, peppers,

grilled eggplants, spongy watermelon and heavenly peaches from the South.

It happens, sometimes, that a pine needle drops into our plates

and bursts the summer bubble.

Undeterred,

we spoil ourselves with ice creams from the nearby gelateria,

as if summer would never return.

As if the rings of the pine tree

would stop growing.

Year after year, it’s comforting to notice,

its increased height

but not its enlarged girth.