Trees Passing

Photo: Denizli, Turkey, near the ancient Greek city of Hierapolis, believed to have been founded by Apollo

Long years ago, a world away,
yearning for a larger life,
the girl I was then watched
an unvarying wilderness of jackpines.

As the bus travelled inland with windows closed against the cold,
the trees parading by the window changed.
Jackpines gave way to forests of birch and alder,
then, in the dry half-desert of the Cariboo,
sparse long-needled ponderosa pines.

Later, slanting rain thrashed ferry windows
through which I marvelled at arbutuses,
thin bark peeling, sinuous branches
leaning contorted over island cliffs dropping to the Pacific.

Then later still, tall unkempt ungainly palms, faded fronds drooping
and the sand beneath them littered with green coconuts.

Now on steep dry hills I savour the scent of Mediterranean pine.
Hot wind blows through bus windows;
the red dust carries the fragrance of eucalyptus.

Unfamiliar leafy trees bow down in dappled shade,
salute the rich red earth that nourishes them.
We are coming into a settlement now.
On one side of the road hunch ranks of dusty olives;
on the other, orange trees bow low,
weighted down with their still-green fruit.

Trees passing – I have watched them
from so many windows
while travelling the roads of my life.